Holiday in Armageddon
by Angelinsydney
Summary: COMING SOON: Sam and Jules are on their way home to their beloved families, alongside the Legion. The last three chapters will take you on an emotional roller coaster ride; a gamut of emotion from happiness over a long-awaited reunion, to tears for a fallen hero. Let's celebrate 7,000 hits. THANK YOU FP FANS for spreading the word. You guys are AWESOME!
1. Sexy Back

**Sexy Back**

For the wedded lovers, the evening began with a stroll, hand in hand giggling like young lovers, along the grounds of the world's most famous monument to love, the Taj Mahal. The white marble mausoleum in Agra, Uttar Pradesh, was built by Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan in memory of his third wife, Mumtaz Mahal; and since then it was been known to pilgrims as an icon of immortal love.

Despite the awesome edifice, where throngs of tourists have queued to enter, the couple lost themselves in the garden. They meandered lost in their own thoughts, sited halfway between the mausoleum and the gateway, a reflecting pool lies on a north-south axis. They instagram-ed a selfie in the same place Prince Charles and Princess Diana posed those many years ago, with the exception that they couldn't keep a stiff lip.

Sam Braddock, elite police officer from the Strategic Response Unit of Toronto Canada gazed at his wife, Jules, another elite police officer from the same Unit, just in a different team. Playfully tugging her pigtail, he asked, 'Hungry?'

She looked up at him, smiling, replied, 'More than you know. All this walking…'

"Let's go back, change into something more formal. I'm taking you out to the most famous restaurant in all of India," he said proudly. She had the giggles, just listening to him make every effort to be the romantic tickled her to bits.

For the long overdue honeymoon, Sam splashed out. The sky was the limit. Five months ago when he asked her where she wanted to honeymoon, she said "India". He didn't hesitate. There were no ifs or buts. The only consideration was whether his Mum and his Dad were willing to babysit Sadie for three weeks, on that account there was no hitch of any kind.

Sam thought if Mrs Braddock wanted to see India, so be it. But they were going to do it in style. He booked them at the Taj Mahal Palace Hotel for the entire duration of their holiday; and, for the second evening in the largest country in the sub-continent, they would be dining first class.

Upon reaching their hotel room, Sam called the concierge to make sure of their reservation at the _Souk_, he was assured that a table was reserved for them, 'In a quiet corner, sir, as instructed.'

They showered together at his insistence, 'We haven't done this in awhile.'

Jules didn't need any convincing, who in her right mind would refuse to be naked in the shower with a hunk.

The scrubbing led to kissing which led to groping which led to aerobics of a certain kind. The ecstasy that came in waves consumed them in the moment. Eventually, as all good things, it had to end.

Getting ready was easy for Sam, he had already decided on a white Hugo Boss shirt, black dress pants and leather shoes.

For Jules it was quite as straight-forward, she had something in mind, one that's been brewing in her mind for a long, long time. She opened the wardrobe where her clothes hang along the rail and picked out an Indian saree she bought at the hotel's shop.

The maroon net saree consisted of a drape nine yards in length and four feet in breadth. She bought it yesterday when Sam was still sleeping off his jet-lag, and she was too excited to sleep. It was a tricky attire to wear so she practiced wrapping the beautiful cloth around her with the help of the Sales clerk who was more than happy to assist.

Sam watched her dressed, he sat cross legged on the large one-seat lounge, his chin on his knuckles, admiring the way she draped the material around her and then finished it with a flourish as she tossed the end of the material over her shoulder, baring her midriff. The flat abdomen, washboard flat, sent a quiver in his groin. Slipping her feet into her four inch heels just about did him in.

'Shall we?' she asked.

'We shall,' he said. He rose from his seat and offered his elbow grandly.

'Where are we going?' she asked peering into his eyes.

He just smiled that devilish smile.

They took the lift up from their sixth floor hotel room. The _Souk_ is located at the rooftop of the Tower Wing with panoramic views of the Mumbai Harbour, the Art District and the majestic Gateway of India. The restaurant offers authentic, light Eastern Mediterranean cuisine from Morocco, Lebanon, Syria, Greece, Turkey and Egypt.

They were led to a spot, in the corner so Sam could sit with his back against the wall. That's something to do with his past as member of Canada's Special Forces, JTF-2.

The wait staff, a beautiful young woman, approached to ask if they were ready to order. Just then, Jules rubbed his thigh, which raised Sam's voice an octave. The young lady smiled, suspecting that something must be happening under the table.

Sam asked for a bottle of Champagne and continued to peruse the menu.

'What are you doing?" he asked Jules under his breath.

Jules giggled. She continued to rub his thigh, this time higher, closer to his crotch. Teasingly. He gripped her hand and glared at her, 'Stop it,' he said.

'Make me.'

But instead Sam guided her hand to his hard on, she had another giggle.

The Wait staff returned with the bottle of champagne just as Sam's brain was going into orbit. He coughed, spluttered and rose from his seat quicker than she could say, 'Boo!'.

'We're taking the bottle,' he said. 'Charge it to room 617.'

With that he grabbed Jules hand and practically lifted her up. 'Come on, we're going.' Jules had another fit of the giggles.

They got into the lift, only to have to wait till they get back to the room before he could rip the saree off her. Joining them in the lift was an Indian couple and their six-year old son. Sam shielded his erection with Jules, rubbing his hardness on her backside. His wife tried to stop her laughter but failed miserably.

He thanked God for magnetic keys because if he had to fumble with a traditional to open the door, the dam, he was certain would explode.

The rest of the evening was consumed with passion, fiery, unreserved, and delirious.

'I can't remember having so much fun in one night,' he said.

'I know,' she said, stroking his blond hair. 'Too busy.'

'Remind me not to take you for granted ever.'

'And me, you," she replied.

They cuddled in bed, naked, uncaring. He glanced at the clock on the night stand, 8:00pm. He turned to his wife, kissed the top of her head and said, 'Hungry?'

She had another fit of laughter. 'Yes, order room service… '

Sam was about to get up when suddenly, there was a loud explosion. The entire hotel shook from its very foundation, the Mumbai massacre of 2008 sprung to his mind.

Then, another. Then, a third blast. Each louder than the previous one.

He glanced at the window just as it spider-webbed from the concussive effect of the bombs, he jumped on top of Jules, rolled them down the side of the bed furthest away from the window just as it imploded!

_Fuck me!_


	2. Mayhem in the Foyer

**Mayhem in the Foyer**

The first thing that came to their mind was: _What's with us and bombs? _IT was an uneasy thought.

The first thing that escaped from Sam's lips was, 'Are you ok?'

'I'd be,' she hissed, 'the minute you get off me! Not that I mind but you're darn heavy.' He couldn't help but smile, when she's feisty like this, she could only be ok. He raised himself on one knee to check that the tempered glass on the window was indeed totally shattered, a protective hand pressing gently on his wife's chest. She rolled her eyes though she secretly loved it whenever he acted all chivalrous.

'Stay down,' he instructed. Turning to face her to make sure she was prepared to comply.

Sam groped for his dress pants in the dark, the explosion having blacked out the whole building. He put them on, and his white Hugo Boss shirt. He looked at it unseeing in the darkness and shook his head, _Here goes another good shirt_.

Jules followed suit, she has formed the good habit of putting everything in the wardrobe in the same place, whether at home or elsewhere when travelling. She knew, for instance, that her tops were on the top shelf on the right hand side; her shorts and pants in the second. Underwear always stored in the drawer. Dresses and skirts were hanged neatly. And the shoes always lined in pairs on the bottom.

She selected by feel a long-sleeve T-shirt, she didn't know it yet but it was the right colour for the occasion. Midnight black. Her hands pulled a pair of stretchy pants. _Perfect nothing would snag_. She put on a pair of light blue Hoka One Kailua Tarmac running shoes.

'Here,' she said softly to Sam, 'Put these on.' Sam took from her a pair of La Sportiva Ultra Raptor Trail running shoes, with an integrated lacing system that secures his feet in place, providing a supportive fit and a wide sole that enhanced stability and comfort. He wasted no time to laced up his shoes, then moved crab-like towards the suitcase resting against the wall inside the wardrobe. He opened it and felt inside the zippered pocket for the two things he never travels without, his set of SwissChamp XLT Swiss Army knife and his black knitted beanie. He put on the head covering to hide his blonde locks.

"Ready?' he casually asked Jules.

'Ready when you are.'

They stood up at the same time, hugged each other and took a deep breath.

He gingerly opened the sound-proof door. He peered in the corridor, looking left and right to make sure there were no unexpected surprises. 'Ok, we're going. Hand on my back.' Jules placed her left hand on his back as she followed the direction he took.

Sam opened the fire exit door just as the elevator doors pinged, carrying with it voices of three men. He thought he heard one of them speak in Pashtu. He breathlessly willed for the fire door to close. Two men split up, one went left and the other went right, banging on door, threatening to shoot it down if the occupants do not comply with their instruction. Doors opened one by one. The hotel guests, petrified kids and scared, sobbing adults, were marched out at gunpoint; and, herded into the crowded elevator. The third man stood by, aimed an AK 47 fitted with streamlight strobe at the cowering, terrified guests, 'Don't get off on any other floor. Go down straight to the foyer. For your information, we have a man on every floor with instruction to shoot anyone who tries.'

As the elevator door closed, one of them said in an agitated manner, 'Room 617 is empty.'

'Maybe they were not in,' suggested the other.

'No, there are clothes on the floor and the suitcase's open.'

The man standing sentinel at the elevator door said, 'Check the stairs.'

Meantime, Sam and Jules have reached the fifth floor landing, he opened the fire door and witnessed the same thing happening. Another three armed men! He was hyper-alert.

They looked up simultaneously as they heard the sixth floor fire door opened. 'Fuck.' They got themselves in a jam, sandwiched between six terrorists. Sam tapped Jules, 'Down, quick.'

She didn't hesitate. She soft raced down the steps, her footfalls cushioned by the thick sole of her runners. Sam followed close behind. In less than two minutes, they were on the bottom floor but the terrorist was still coming down the stairs.

They could see the flashes of his streamlight in pitch dark. Sam tapped Jules' shoulder, whispered, 'We have to take him down.'

Jules crouched low, made herself as small as possible along the side of the stairs. Sam remained half crouched, his front pressed against the stairs waiting for the right time to make his move. The man was now just one landing away, his streamlight still moving up and down, scoping his immediate surrounding.

Three steps to go.

Two!

One!

_**Now!**_

Sam grabbed his foot, tripping him. He fell head first on the hard concrete floor. The strobe light, the only source of illumination broke into tiny pieces, rendering the entire space totally black. Jules dared not move for fear of hurting the wrong combatant. She couldn't tell who was on top of whom and who was winning. All she heard was a sharp snap, of bones breaking in two, followed by fallowed breathing.

'Sam?'

'I'm here, hon.'

She expelled a breath. 'I broke his neck.' He patted the man, and scored with a trusty AK 47 and a couple of fully loaded magazines which he passed on to Jules. A K-bar knife which he kept. He was disappointed when he found no communication gear. But there was a mobile phone.

By muscle memory, he touched typed the number of the Canadian JTF-2 Headquarters, that's when he found out there was no signal. 'Jammed,' he said more to himself. He pocketed it anyway, it was bound to come in handy.

Sam opened the heavy fire door. 'Wait,' said Jules.

He closed it again slowly, 'What?'

'Aren't you wondering how the elevator worked when there's no power?'

'There's gotta be residual power or they're using generators to power it, I don't know…' he shrugged. 'Does it matter?'

'Not really… I was just curious. Anyway you're right, there's gotta be a mobile power source. What do we do now?'

'You stay here and don't move unless you can't help it. I'm going out there.'

'I'm coming with you,' she said.

'You can't! Please. I'll be back.' He kissed her tenderly on the lips. 'I love you, stay safe.'

Jules breathe out, 'I love you, too. Stay safe.'

'Be sniper ready! Anyone open this door, without tapping twice first, shoot. Don't even think about it.'

Sam opened the door slightly, he couldn't see a thing but he could hear voices and noises. Scared, panicked people. Worse of all, he couldn't stand the sound of children crying. He crab-walked towards the main foyer; there was choking dust in the air. Particles hanging suspended in the atmosphere, giving the surrounding an eerie feeling. Debris from wall hangings, décors, and structures were scattered everywhere, reminiscent of the bombing Marcus Faber's bombing of the Toronto City Hall in December 2012.

To limit the noise he was making, he crawled slowly, inch by painful inch; he kept his profile low. Jules was mindful of the time, she has counted up to 1,200 and wondered where Sam has got to now. He has got close to the source of the sound. In the only part of the foyer that was untouched by the bombs, the hotel guests were being ordered to sit on the ground, failure to follow the order was greeted with a booted leg or the butt of the AK 47.

A lone spotlight was the only source of illumination, the darkened shadows of armed men doubling the fearsome effect on the captives. Children tried to stifle their sobs for fear of reprisal. It was a scene of utter mayhem.

He could only guess that there were 18 terrorists at least, if there were three on every floor, at the time of the assault. But there could also be as many as a 100 considering there were 560 rooms in the hotel, on top of that, there were conference rooms, beauty spa, restaurants, and gift shops to assault.

When the gibbering masses quietened down, he heard one of the men say, 'Aamir, he is not here. He hasn't returned.'

'Where did you see him last?' asked the man who appeared to be the leader.

'I sent him down the stairs to look for missing hotel guest.' Sam's skin crawled. The hair on his neck stood on end when the leader pointed to a cluster of three men, 'You, go find him.'

The three men turned to leave, heading for Jules' lair. In his haste to get back to Jules before the other three, he stepped on a loose pile of rock. The sound of him slippery sliding on the debris followed suit.

_Shit! Shit! Shit!_


	3. Trust is the Operative Word

A/N: In my previous story entitled 'A Man called Perseus', I gave the backstory of General Braddock's background in Military Intelligence. If you haven't read that, please enjoy it.

**Trust is the Operative Word**

Now wasn't the time to flip out. Sam quickly got the creative, imaginative right-side of his brain in gear. Special Forces men were taught to think outside the square; to think creatively; to act brazenly; and to be unpredictable.

As the three armed terrorists raced to his location, he surveyed his immediate surrounding and found a chunk of concrete amongst the debris lying next to him. Without hesitation, he jammed his left foot in the small gap between the concrete and the cracked marble floor, let out a cry for the benefit of the terrorists who have now gathered around him, threatening to blow his head off.

Covered in dust and grime, appearing to all as if he has only came to from unconsciousness and seemingly writhing in pain for being pinned down, he begged the men to lift the concrete off him. 'Please,' he pleaded. 'Take this off me. Please. Have mercy.' The men laughed in unified derision. One of the men spoke in halting English, 'Good. You die there like a pig.'

Unexpectedly, the youngest of the three men bent down, attempted to help, but the older man with him smacked him in the head. Speaking in Pashtu, he chastised the younger, 'Idiot! Let him be.'

The younger man argued back, 'We gotta take him back with the hostages. What if he escapes?'

'Idiot,' he got another whack on the head. 'How's he going to get himself from underneath that? Let's go, before I kill you for stupidity.'

* * *

Jules has positioned herself behind the door. She had folded her left leg underneath her and sat on her foot. Her right leg was bent at the knee; using it as a tripod for the AK 47. Throughout Sam's confrontation with the armed terrorists, Jules has been eavesdropping. She has wedged a foot on the fire door, allowing it to be ajar by a bare centimetre. Fully shut, the reinforced fire door was so thick it prevented sounds from being heard, but by leaving a small opening she heard a wee bit of what has happened.

She tightened her grip on the weapon, breathing shallow. Sam has clearly made a choice to be captured so she could be free.

Now, it was her turn to make a choice. There were far too many unknown. She mentally calculated how many potential enemy combatants there were, it didn't sound good. At a guess, she couldn't fight them all off, and not without risking the man she loves and the other hostages.

She heard movements. They were on the move. Quickly, she made her decision to abandon her lair. She got up on her legs, and sprinted up the pitch black stairwell; hating herself for abandoning Sam. But she has no choice in the matter. She reached the sixth floor before the men reached the fire exit_. All the rooms have been searched, but what are the odds they will do another search?_ Heart palpitating, she forced herself to calm down and not to second guess herself.

Room 617 beckoned to her. At least, in that room, there was a chance she's got something she could use. Time to be creative.

_I have to trust Sam. I have to. He has a plan. He has!_ She repeated this to herself. Over and over, like her life depended on it.

* * *

In the nation's capital New Delhi, the reaction of politicians and the media was swift. There was blame and counter blame. Accusations were flying thick and fast. Apportioning blame with regards to who dropped the intelligence ball and why the hell did they not know such a tragedy was going to unfold, yet again!

The voice of condemnation echoed around the world, from the USA and Canada in the Americas, to Great Britain and the European Union, to Australia and New Zealand in the Australasian region, to China, Japan and Indonesia in Asia, to Israel and Saudi Arabia in the Middle East, to Russia of the Soviet bloc.

Behind the scene, deeper behind the scene, military intelligence and the spy agencies scrambled.

General Braddock was at home watching television when parts of the Taj Mahal Hotel exploded in bits. He jumped up from the couch. Eyes wide. ' Nellie,' he screamed for his wife of 40 years. 'I'm going to HQ.'

'Bancroft,' he hollered at the top of lungs.

His aide de camp, a Corporal, raced inside the living room from his post. 'Sir, yes Sir!.'

'Get the car ready, we're going to HQ.'

Corporal Bancroft's eyes caught the vision of the explosion on the screen as the news was being repeated; and it would be repeated a gazillion times during the broadcast. 'Fucking hell,' he uttered.'

'Yes, fucking hell,' repeated the General.

Nellie Braddock, with a wriggling Sadie in her arms, ran to the living room to see what was going on, just as the news reel was recycling the explosive scene. Dust bellowing out of the orifices of the Taj Mahal Hotel. She gasped. Her knees weakened. She barely made it to the sofa in shock.

'My God. Sam. Jules.'

She was still in shock when the phone trilled. It was Natalie Braddock checking in with her. 'Mum, are you watching TV?'

The men climbed in the armoured military car parked on the driveway, before Corp Bancroft could fire up the engine, the General was already on the phone to Military Intelligence, of which he was the head, organising an impromptu meeting. When he hanged up the phone, he was cursing under his breath. Remembering how Sam had approached him for intel about India prior to organising his honeymoon.

In one of those rare moments when father and son had a chat outside of politics and law enforcement and the military, Sam asked the General, 'Sir, do you have a travel advisory for us, about India?'

'No, son. This seems to be the ideal time to visit the sub-continent. There are no murmurs. The airwaves have been very quietly lately.' He was, he thought, on top of things.

He slammed his fist on his thigh. Angry at himself, and at his Team, and at CSIS, the CIA, the NSA, at all of the overpaid bastards put together. _Heads will roll,_ he thought grimly, _primarily, mine._ In his position the buck stops with the man at the top job.

Corporal Bancroft looked at the defeated image of his Boss, slumped on the backseat, eyes closed and forehead crunched with worry. _It is not good!_

Military and rescue responses have yet to be organised but at least India's **Force One** has been mobilised. **Force One** is an elite commando force, a specialised counter terrorism unit to guard the Mumbai metropolitan area, one of the largest metropolitan areas in the world. It was formed as a response to the 2008 Mumbai terror attacks.

* * *

_The rooms have been searched, what are the odds they'd searched it again?_ It didn't matter. Whatever she'd need she'd find in there. She entered on her hands and knees, carefully. Her eyes have adapted to the darkness, she could faintly see objects strewn around. More by feel, she found her mobile phone. _No signal_. She took it anyway, it would come in handy.

Next, she found her make-up kit bag. She rummaged for her cuticle remover. Later, it would prove to be useful, just not for removing cuticles.

The glass window has been smashed to smithereens, picking up a shard of mirrored glass, she had a thought. Crawling to it and hoping against hope, head tucked close against the wall, she raised her hand, flashed the mirror in Morse code, 'SOS.'

Someone, thank goodness, was watching, someone from the American Consulate, a low level consular worker.

On a chance that someone out there could interpret it, she followed it with 'SRU.'

_SOS. SRU._ 'What the hell…. is that a code?' He dialled a special number, his call went straight to the Pentagon. 'We've got contact. .'

'SRU? What the hell is that?' mused the Pentagon Analyst.

The Head of Pentagon, who was at that time in a secure electronic huddle with his counterparts, was interrupted. 'Sir, there's been a development.' The message was passed on, 'Gentlemen,' he looked at the screen, 'Who knows anything about SRU?'

'I do,' replied the General.

* * *

Back at the foyer, Sam has realised he was seriously in a pickle. Murphy's Law was to blame. You could easily stick something in a tight spot, but try getting out of it. As much as he tugged and pulled, Sam has found himself well and truly wedged. With a wife who's on her own. He closed his eyes in damned frustration and gritted his teeth.

_Fucking hell!_

But he decided he gotta trust Jules. _She has a plan. She has to. OR neither of us are ever seeing Sadie again!_


	4. Counting Heads

**Counting Heads**

It has taken years of discipline to get to the point where Sam could ignore his fears and focus on the problem at hand. _Think. Think_.

Logically, what goes up must come down. What goes in must come out. _That's logical! But how do I apply it in my case? _He stopped tugging his leg out, which was only serving to tear at the joints; instead, he tried picturing it in his head. _What's snagging? What's caught on?_

He closed his eyes, wiggled the leg a bit, he felt just where the problem was. The chunk of concrete had metal spine embedded in it, the metal has protruded out and caught his foot. _I need to lever it up_.

* * *

Jules dared to peep, her head coming up slightly above the sill. Scanning. Searching for a tell-tale sign her message was received by someone, anyone. Surely, if there was one country choc-a-block full of spies it would have to be India chief among them. She smiled, there it was, a response. Short and sweet: COPY.

Satisfied, she turned around, squatted on the floor, and paused to think. She remembered her pepper spray. Again by feel, she searched for the pair of jeans she was wearing during the stroll, it was in her jeans' pocket.

She heard noises a few doors down, _they're here_. A trained gymnast, she spider walked up the door jamb, held herself in animated suspension against the ceiling using two legs and two arms. The pepper spray she held firmly in her right hand, the forefinger poised and ready to depress on the nuzzle.

She forced herself to slow her breathing as the footsteps came nearer and nearer. She strained to listen, _One, two or three? _

_One._ She decided she could take the battle to him. One on one, it's an even fight.

The towel head took three steps inside to Room 617, he heard a "Psst" from overhead. He looked up as Jules depressed the nozzle of the pepper spray. He dropped his weapon when his eyes was blinded and stung with pain so excruciating and instantaneous. But far from being able to scream for help, he was muted by a booted kick in the throat as the highly-trained elite police officer swung her leg, Ju-jitsu style. She landed on his feet next to the terrorist. Without delay, she dragged him inside the room and locked the door.

* * *

Embassies and consulates have been counting heads. A hotline was flashed on television in every first world countries asking for relatives and friends to advice of the whereabouts of their family members and friends. Through news bulletins and SMS alerts, tourists booked at the Taj Mahal Hotel but weren't inside the edifice at the time of the bombing were encouraged to report in to their respective embassies.

Four hours after the bombing a tentative count, tentative being the operative word, was arrived at. Based on data received there were, at the time of the bombing and assumed trapped inside the Hotel, 210 Indian citizens, mostly staff and some bonafide local tourists; 75 Americans; 57 Britons; 10 French; 39 Chinese; 20 Japanese; 60 Australians; 15 New Zealanders; and 101 Canadians. A total of 567.

Due to the large number of Canadians at risk, and the fact that two elite Toronto Officer were assumed to be "active" inside the building General Braddock asked for the Canada's JTF-2 Commandos to take point on Ground Zero. He didn't have to ask twice.

It was with a stroke of luck a Unit of Canadian Commandos have been training in Singapore with their Asian counterparts on counter terrorism, reducing the travel distance by nearly 8,000 kilometeres or just nearly under 5,000 miles. The JTFs whose motto is **FACTA NON VERBA**, _DEEDS NOT WORDS_, mobilised within the hour being combat ready at all times.

* * *

Sam got the idea to lever up the chunk of concrete. It would be hard going but fuck if he was going to fail. Failure wasn't an option. In the darkness, he felt for hard objects small enough to fit in the opening but large and strong enough to hold up the concrete. The first one he tried crumbled under the weight of the block. So did the second, and the third and the fourth. Yet his spirit refused to give up.

But first he must rest. He hasn't had water to drink for hours and had not had a meal to eat. He refused to think of his leg although it felt like it was going to detach from him. Clearing his mind, he focused on his breathing. Inhaled, he counted to eight, exhaled. Counted to eight, inhaled. Counted to eight, exhaled. He did this seven times and it worked, his brain cleared of cobweb and his lungs cleared of fogged air.

He felt around him again and touched a promising object. A round steel cylinder. Whatever it was, he couldn't fully see in the dark but he could tell from the outline that it was just the sort of object that could free him. He inserted it in the opening. He had no choice now but to use his other foot to push it in.

_What if the other one gets caught inside too?_

He decided it didn't matter whether one or both feet were wedged, both meant being pinned down but if there was a chance at all that he could be free, he'd take his chances. He guided the steel cylinder inside with his right foot, centimetre by centimetre. It was hard and tedious, then a breakthrough, he felt his left foot for the first time in ages.

_Best not to push my luck too far_, he stopped pushing the cylinder in. He raised his body off the rubble and dragged himself out inch by painful inch; pausing only to take a breather, willing himself not to give up. _Any second now_.

One last tug and he was free. He commando crawled back to the fire exit, determined to find his beloved.

* * *

The 12-man Unit were armed and deployed within two hours after being alerted. There wasn't a minute to spare. On board the Airbus A310, a medium to long range twin-engine, wide body plane, the Commandos were given their first briefing. Giving new meaning to the expression, 'on the fly'.

The small band of brothers and their support crew battened down to make tactical plans. Their leader, nicknamed Archangel said, 'We will make adjustments to the plan of attack as more information come to hand. Gentlemen, make your presence count.'

* * *

Jules secured her prisoner. Gagged his mouth, hogtied him and sequestered his weapons. She smiled at the thought of Jules Rambo Braddock. She's now a proud owner of two Ak 47s, several loaded magazines; another cell phone courtesy of Mr Terrorist, and a unlikely find, several SIM cards. _SIM cards?_

She patted him down and felt something secured in his back pocket. She pulled it out. Opened it. Using the streamlite of the newly acquired AK47, she read it and said to herself, 'Holy Mother of God. Shit.' Just then the door suddenly burst open but she wasn't sniper ready.

_What now?!_


	5. Counter Intuitive

A/N: A reviewer took exception to the descriptive words 'towel head' in the previous chapter. She made a comment that "Jules wouldn't even think that". I concur completely. She, as the character, neither thought it nor spoke it. Characters' thought are in italics. Quotes are in quotation marks. The word choice was done as a euphemism, and in the realistic style of modern fiction.

The euphemism 'towel head' is to be taken in context of the character's vantage point being suspended in the ceiling. You will notice that the phrase was only ever used once, not repeatedly. No racial connotation implied.

Blondie, Sam's SF nickname was first explained in the story 'Beyond this Place of Blood and Tears.'

Juan Salvador y Ruiz, nicknamed Aguila, former Delta Force, was first introduced in the story 'Treasures' and appeared again with Sam in the story 'Zulu'.

**Counter Intuitive**

Self-preservation is instinctive but self-defence is often counter intuitive. As trained operative in elite policing, Jules had the ability to process information quickly. She knew in a microsecond it wasn't her husband. There was no double tap on the door, Sam's last instruction to her. She made herself into a human ball and rolled towards the assailant picking up a shard of glass as she went along, just as the first automatic burst fired, hitting the unconscious terrorist hogtied on the floor killing him instantly.

The watcher across the building saw the unmistakable flashes of automatic weapon; he immediately relayed the message to the Pentagon Nerve Centre, 'Shots fired, SRU engaged'.

Jules kept rolling toward the second terrorist like a loose cannon ball. Most mortals when confronted with a gun, automatic or not, would tend to run away as fast as humanly possible, it's instinctive behavior. But by doing the opposite, Jules bought herself precious seconds and the chance to fight for her life. On the shooter's part, it's likewise not instinctive to aim his weapon closer into his own person; it's easier to aim it out but his opponent was definitely rolling in!

Upon the third somersaults of her body on the floor, she reached the man's position, stopped between his legs and slashed at the femoral artery! She hardly paused, she kept rolling away to avoid the arterial spray that almost immediately covered the floor; the smell of iron in the plasma assaulting her senses. The man instinctively dropped his weapon and frantically tried to stem the blood flow but to no avail; he would bleed out in seconds.

* * *

In another part of the world, a Communications Specialist on duty received the message; he passed it on to the Chief of the Joint Staff, who relayed it across all concern. The news travelled at lightning speed. When it finally reached the ears of General Braddock, he slumped on his seat barely able to breathe. Sgt Greg Parker of START (Toronto's Strategic Terror Alert Response Team) placed a comforting hand on his shoulder but wisely didn't utter a word.

The Office of Military Intelligence fell deathly silent; the atmosphere thick with worry.

When he was able to speak, the General asked for a round table with his military analysts. He despaired, _too much running around with not much answers! _

Once they were seated, he had one question, 'What do we know so far?'

The half dozen top notch analysts looked to each other, hoping someone would be brave enough to take the mantle of telling what they didn't know so far. Finally, a naive 20-something female analyst, fresh from a Master's Degree in Computer Science from the University of Toronto entered where no man dared. "None Sir. We're still digging. Nothing seems to make sense.'

The answer infuriated him, the General got up in a huff and gave the chair a good kicking, frigthening the daylight out of everyone in the room.

* * *

Sam has reached the sixth floor, hoping against hope Jules was safe. Heart pounding within his chest cavity, he forced himself to stick to his training. Slow and steady! _Slow is Smooth. Smooth is fast. Fast is lethal. _His footfalls were like those of a panther, heel and toe. Heel and toe.

Covered in blood, thank God mostly not her own, Jules has given in to exhaustion. She slumped on the floor at the edge of the door feeling the effects of the over production of lactic acid in her muscles and adrenaline in her system. Her thoughts swirled around her beloved husband and daughter, the last image in her mind before she succumbed to a microsleep was Sam and Sadie horsing around on the floor the day before their departure.

Sam nearly had a heart attack when his eyes, now adapted to the darkness, saw a silhouette of a small person. It had to be Jules. He raced over, 'Jules, honey.' She didn't look human. He hugged her tight - blood and all! His anguished brain thought that with all that blood she could not possibly be alive. At that precise moment, he was not a former Special Forces warrior, he was just a lover and a husband, heart-broken at the state of her, he cried, 'I love you, Jules.'

Jules moaned. He looked down, his tears dripping on her face. 'Thank God,' he whispered. 'I can't live without you.' She gave him a small, tight smile, 'Yes, you can,' she whispered back. She raised her right hand, desiring to wipe his tears away but it was oozing blood, slit by the broken glass as she fearlessly slashed at the enemy. She stopped and clenched her fist instead.

Relief mixed with grief, Sam burst into unmanly sobs, 'For a second there, I thought I lost you.' She rested her head on his chest, listening to his thumping heartbeats. They really have to get a move on, there was another terrorist on the prowl but all things considered, they would hug and hold each other if it was the last thing they do on God's earth.

The only available illumination in the room was streamlite from the dropped AK47, Sam glanced briefly inside and saw two slumped figures. If he had the energy to wolf whistle, he'd have done it. It was mighty impressive. 'Stay here,' he said finally, 'I'll…'

'Wait,' she said hoarsely, firmly holding on his lower arm, 'searched the other guy. Make sure you search him well.'

'I will but first I have to attend to you.'

'No, please. Now.' She said it with such urgency he didn't argue.

One man was hogtied, that had to be the first guy. At first, he approached cautiously but knew for sure there wasn't a chance the second man could still be alive based on the spilled volume of plasma. He searched from top to bottom, front to back and made with a Sig Sauer P226 which he sequestered and tucked in the small of his back. A passport, a number of Sim cards, a knife and a cell phone. He saw similar items on the floor next to the tied man, the items Jules must have found.

He searched for a bag to hold their hordes, and searched for a first aid kit they always packed with them. He opened the top drawer of the wardrobe, it was there. His eyes scanned the room one more time, he saw the bar fridge. Opening it, he found Special Forces food. Bars of chocolates, candies, crispy chips, water, cola. SF are taught eat when you can, sleep when you can, snatch them if you have to. He took them all and bagged them.

He returned to Jules who appeared to be better already. 'Let's go,' he said as he tried to help her up.'One more thing,' she said, 'send a Morse Code.'

Sam looked at her quizzically. She added with smile, 'Someone's watching.'

'You have a lot of explaining to do young lady,' he said with a smirk. Nevertheless, he did as asked. He sent a message, plain and simple, 'THREE DOWN.' He was mildly shocked to receive a message back, short and sweet, 'COPY.'

Fuck me, he thought.

Three AK47s between them, and a horde of stuff, they walked towards the fire exit again, this time to climb up to the roof top. He opened the door gingerly, faint flashes of light danced as the third terrorist was climbing up the steps. Sam pushed Jules back, instructed her, 'Stay and don't move.'

Through the gap in the door, he fired a shot - it hit the target squarely in the gut. The impact propelled the man backwards, as the sound of a heavy weapon cluttering down the stairs could be heard. 'Stay here,' whispered Sam to Jules. 'I have unfinished business.'

He came face to face with the man who left him to die like a pig. He looked older now that he's lying on the ground injured. The blond warrior was slightly taken aback when the enemy spoke, he sounded Bostonian. 'I made the mistake of letting you live.'

'Don't make it sound like it was a benevolent decision. You and I, we both know. You wanted me to die a painful death. You wanted me to die of fear, of pain, of thirst and of hunger.'

The man, whatever caused him to become the way he is, said spitefully, 'Die you pig.'

'After you,' said Sam but he couldn't fire to finish him off. He has killed but only on order of higher authority or in defence of his life, but to kill an injured helpless man? He didn't think he could do it even with the taunting.

Gasping, the terrorist said, 'What? You don't have the nerve.' The man straightened up on his elbows, dragged himself painfully and slowly to rest against the wall, 'I should have given you a quick death. You're a good actor, I give you that. You had me fooled.' The man mimicked Sam's acting. 'Help me, help me. Oh…' His hands moved behind his back…

Sam wasn't fooled. His eyes narrowed, he sensed it, something was afoot. Then he heard the distinctive sound of a safety being released, it was all the excuse Sam needed to pull the trigger of the Sig Sauer and hit the man between the eyes.

* * *

Meantime, the watcher has swiftly relayed the message to Pentagon, the news made the round quickly to all concern. The General, not known to show emotion or any display of humanness, hugged Parker. But it was a restraint celebration, three down but how many to go?

"Corporal Bancroft, patched me through to the Archangel.' The Aide hastened.

On board the Airbus, the Flight Engineer signalled the warrior who raised a fist in the air to silence his team, they were in a bantering mood. They listened in to his bit of the conversation but all they heard was 'Sir.' 'Yes, Sir.' 'Sir.'

* * *

In the foyer, the terrorists have finished with the set up; ready to broadcast. The man in charge said, 'Let's do it.' On cue, images were transmitted via the internet; a camera panned slowly on faces of children, men and women, hurt, bloodied and in obvious pain. Everyone around the world stood at attention to watch; at home, in school, in their offices, in the shops, where they had access to a computer or a smartphone, they stood watching gripped with apprehension.

In a house somewhere in Surrey England, a child pointed at the computer screen and said, 'That's my Mum.' In an apartment unit in Japan, a frail middle-aged woman, gasped, 'Hiro-san' before fainting. This scene was repeated all over the world.

Next, the camera panned on bodies and faces of dead people. It was cruel in the extreme.

* * *

At the Pentagon and in all the intelligence agencies of the world, spy masters and analysts watched helplessly. They have all these bodies but no perpetrators. _**Who are they? What do they want?**_ There were more questions than they could poke a stick at.

Jules and Sam knew the answer to the questions, or at least some of the answers. The only two in the whole world of nearly six billion people who has some answer. It would be a herculean task to get the information from the rooftop of the damaged Taj Mahal Hotel to the powers that be.

But first Sam must attend to Jules' injuries. While the hotel was blanketed in darkness, at least the rooftop was partially lit by floodlights from assembled rescue workers. The extent of Jules' wounds horrified Sam. He looked at the cut in her palms and said, 'I have to suture it. Grit and bear it.'

He opened the medical kit and set about cleaning her wounds. Tears rolled down her face tugging at his heart. 'Here, bite into this,' he said handing Jules a Mars bar. Light laughter escaped from her lips, 'That's the spirit,' he said. More for his benefit than hers.

* * *

The watcher, through his high powered night vision binoculars, saw movements on the rooftop. As far as he could ascertain, there were two people, could be a man and a woman. He reported back. The news was received with much glee and self-congratulation, not that they had anything to do with it!

It would be a very long night. He looked at his favourite battlefield time piece, the Timex Expedition, ever reliable and cheap. Ten Post Meridiem. A mere two bloody hours since the first bomb blast! But it felt like a lifetime.

He got up from his prone position, reached for his prosthetic leg and slipped it on. Juan Salvador Y Ruiz, Nicknamed Aguila, former Delta Force, wasn't even supposed to be in this part of the world. But now, he has found himself on stag as the world burns.

He doesn't know it yet but a reunion with Blondie, former JTF-2 was forthcoming!


	6. Priorities

_A/N: I am very grateful for the reviews, especially Alleycat's. She made a comment that she's almost afraid to ask what word I'd replace 'towel head' with. All I can is 'Be very afraid.' Just kidding. :)_

_She suggested I use a good Beta reader. Alleycat, you'd be glad to know I am taking your suggestion on board and will be sending the first chapter for Beta. And the next, and the next, and the next. Not because the chapters have been uploaded, they can't be improved._

_I take risk writing in a language not my own as I come from a non-English speaking background. I have the tendency to write in sentence structure base on my native tongue, I'm aware it can be a little problematic. _

_In the meantime, I will continue to upload chapters as I complete them without prior Beta because, and this maybe the wrong phrase to use, this story is burning a hole in my head._

_Thank you for your support_

**Priorities**

As they watched the procession of faces belonging to the living wounded and the deceased, the normally even-keeled U.S. Chief of the Joint Staff said with authority, 'Let's get this show on track. Get our priorities in order.'

A member of the Joint Staff suggested they utilised facial recognition system for the quick identification of the hostages and the deceased. The Chief of Staff concurred, 'Get the U.S. State Department to run it ASAP.' The State Department housed in the Harry S Truman Building on 2201 C Street, NW, a few blocks from the White House operates one of the largest face recognition systems in the world.

But experts at the State Department didn't need telling; with the multi-million biometrics system at their disposal they have set to work once they got over their initial shock. Cross-referencing passport photos with border entry details from India's Customs and Immigration Department and information acquired from various third party sources, they would eventually manage to identify every one of the hostages and those killed in the blast.

* * *

Sam pretended to admire his handiwork, holding Jules' delicate hand in the palm of his hand he quipped, 'I should go to medical school.'

The criss-cross stitch looked awfully angry, he knew though it only looked bad due to the swelling but it tore his heart nevertheless. He resisted the urge to kiss it for fear of infecting the wound. Instead, he gently placed a hand on the back of her neck, pulled her towards him so they were head to head. Feeling raw inside, tears flooded out of his tear duct, he blamed it on the fatigue and the stress. He came so close to losing her, it just didn't bear thinking about.

'Hey,' she said, aware of her lover's emotional upheaval. 'I'm alright,' she soothed. 'Are you?"

He looked up, his eyes glistening from the tears, 'I'm good,' he said, if he could just believe it. He shifted position to sit next to her, leaned his head on her shoulder mulling things in his head. Minutes later, he asked, 'Do you recall seeing a couple of mountaineers checking in at the same time as us?'

'I think I do,' she said tentatively. She paused for a millisecond and said, 'In fact, yeah, I'm sure I do.'

'Did you happen to overhear their room number?'

Jules looked at her husband, smiled and said in good humour, 'Sorry Officer Braddock but at that time I wasn't wearing my bionic ears.' Sam smiled sheepishly; it was too much to hope for even with a sexy sniper chick for a wife. But he had to ask.

'What are you thinking?' she said.

'We could rappel down.'

'Good thinking,' she said agreeably, 'if only we have rope. How high up do you think we are?'

'At a guess,100 feet. Those guys are hard core mountaineers, I bet ya they have ropes that will serve our purpose.' He got up, 'Stay put,' he said, 'I'd search for it.'

That's when she noticed it - Sam was limping. 'What's wrong with your leg?'

'Nothing,' he said. He was lying but he hoped he concealed it well from her. He could feel the left foot's ankle has swollen but right now would not be the time to check it. He bent down painfully to pick up a loaded AK47, 'Stay put and keep yourself concealed. If you don't hear a double tap…' he didn't have to finish, she was already nodding.

'Take this,' she said offering him bottled water, 'you haven't had anything to drink.'

'Thanks.'

He smiled tiredly, uncapped the bottle and drank the liquid greedily, he didn't realise how thirsty he was.

'Stay safe,' he said as he turned on his heels.

* * *

Ruiz watched eagle-eyed from his perch, he saw the man leave the woman. His brows furrowed second guessing what the man was thinking at this strategic point. He shrugged, conceding there was nothing else to do but wait. He walked around to shake off his boredom and the creak in his neck; not to mention the cramp in his leg.

Unknown to him, a shadowy figure has been lurking at his three o' clock, watching him, watching them.

He, the man called the Shadow, also got up to walk off his fatigue. It's not easy watching people.

* * *

Half an hour passed before Sam was back with rope looped across his body, it must weigh a tonne thought Jules. He set it down next to her. Before anything else, using the streamlite of the AK47, he sent a code to the watcher, 'Watch our back.'

The watcher replied, 'COPY.' The watcher's watcher took note of the exchanges between the two parties; a smile forming on his face.

Ruiz carefully opened the guitar case that was nearly always by his side. He retrieved his well-loved sniper rifle, a MK12 Special Purpose Rifle (SPR), a modified variant of the M16 family of deadly weapons. The SPR grew out of a requirement of Special Forces for a compact light sniper weapon. It is fitted with a threaded-muzzle match-grade free floating stainless steel heavy barrel and fires the Mk 262 Open Tip Match Mod 1 round.

The modular SPR is designed to be customised to needs of the end user; as such it can be configured with a range of butt stocks, optics and other accessories. The weapon's hand guards are free-floating, a design, when coupled with the free-floating barrel, increases the weapon's accuracy. But this is not why he loved it so much, he loves it as it had been a trusted friend in battle. It is also now considered an antique by weapons standard. The United States military since mid-2011 has started to remove the MK12 SPR from its inventory, it will be completely phased out by 2017.

He caressed the butt stock before taking careful aim, zeroing his sight-scope. He aimed at the roof top door, just in case someone fancied having a smoke.

Sam chose the side of the building that has little visibility from the street, the less commotion they'd attract on the way down, the better. He dug deep inside his pocket for two locking carabiners and handed one to Jules. It was to be a simple job: build a webbing anchor and attach the end of the rope to the anchor using a single-loop figure-8, then slide down the rope with the descending device.

Jules was awfully quiet. 'A penny for your thought,' he said glancing briefly at his wife.

'What about them?' she said referring to the survivors.

'You know this is the right thing to do. We can't save them. We don't even know how many are holding them hostage. In fact, I'm baffled they haven't sent a kill party for us. Something's wrong, Jules. I can feel it in my bones. We need to get these SIM cards and passports out of here. The only way to save them is to find out who's responsible and figure out their agenda. Intel is better than brute force.' She sighed heavily even as she acknowledged he was right.

Sam felt it before he heard it. The soft-whistle flight of a high velocity bullet fired from a distance. He instinctively grabbed Jules and covered her with his body. The watcher sniped from 300 metres (approximately 1640 feet) and hit a target smacked in the back of the head. It sent a tingle up his spine, one of the terrorists has managed to sneak up on them undetected. Yet again, they could have been dead as a dodo.

He got up quickly and hauled Jules off the ground, 'Now,' he said, hooking her to the rope. She didn't hesitate, it was now or never. Sam shouldered the bag and the weapons and followed suit. The watcher stayed put, an eye still glued to the scope of his rifle, waiting for the man and the woman to get clear.

Once Sam has landed on his feet outside Ground Zero, Ruiz packed his sniper rifle and climbed down from his perch with practiced ease. His own watcher did likewise.

Now it was just a matter of finding them, thought Ruiz. He couldn't afford to lose them. From his vantage point, he has memorised the streets and lanes around the Taj Mahal Hotel, he took the most direct road to where Sam and Jules dropped. Even running on a leg and a blade, and a 15-pound case on his back, it took him a mere two minutes to reach the pair.

Sighting the couple, and recognising the blond warrior, he muttered 'What the hell' under his breath. Spooking a heavily armed former Special Forces is never a good idea on any given day, so hidden behind a wall for cover, he hissed, 'Hey, Blondie.' The ex-Delta Force detected a stiffening on Braddock's shoulders, 'It's Aguila,' he said to reassure.

Sam shook his head, turned around and broke into a grin, 'What the fuck are you doing this?'

'Tell you later, we gotta go.' The trio walked as briskly as Sam's limping leg would allow. Unbeknownst to them they've picked up a tail.

Ruiz took them the long-about way to a middle class area by Uttar Pradesh's standard. Trained to be paranoid, he stopped to light a cigarette close to their destination. He surreptitiously glanced around, and saw no one. But his action was not lost on the shadowy figure hiding behind a post.

They reached a nondescript house. Ruiz hastily opened the door but didn't turn on the lights. Navigating the interior by memory and by feel, he guided the couple expertly into the middle section of the house before turning on the light.

Ruiz spoke first, 'Geez, fancy bumping into you.'

'Yeah, you can say that again. By the way, this is my wife Jules.'

'Please to meet you, Ma'am.'

'It's Jules,' she said.

'Jules,' he repeated. 'You're better looking in person; your picture doesn't do you justice.'

'When did you see my picture?'

'Back when we were in Singapore,' he said pointing to Sam.

'Ah,' she said, 'that mission.'

'Yeah, that.'

'Before we get carried away, someone needs to talk to you two.' Ruiz fired up his encrypted phone, put it on speaker and patched a call through to the Pentagon. While Sam and Jules explained what they've discovered thus far, he went away to make coffee for three.

At the end of the call, Ruiz returned with three mugs of steaming liquid, 'Wanna fill me in?" he asked.

Sam pushed three passports towards him. The ex-Delta Force slowly shook his head from side to side; the unmistakable blue cover with the image of an eagle embossed on top told him it's American before he opened it. He sighed with disgust as he peruse the others, one Canadian, the other Australian.

'Home grown terrorists?'

'It sure looks like it.'

'What's your take on it?'

Jules replied this time. 'We think they came as tourists and booked as guests.'

Ruiz rubbed his face vigorously with his hand, frustration evident in his demeanour, 'I still don't understand what's in play. It doesn't make sense.'

'I think these will supply the answers,' said Sam as he emptied the contents of bag on the table to show Ruiz the SIM cards. 'We need to get these to the U.S. Consulate. We've taken photos of the passports and emailed it but unless you have a more sophisticated hardware than this smartphone, we've gotta physically get these to them ASAP.'

'I better call them then.'

'They're expecting us,' said Jules. 'That's what this guy at the Pentagon said anyway.'

Ruiz smiled, 'He happened to be the Chief of the Joint Staff.'

'Your boss?" inquired Sam.

'What boss? I'm retired.'

Sam and Jules smirked, 'Right,' said Sam, 'A retiree with a direct line to the Pentagon. And I'm the son of Zeus.'

Banter aside they gotta get a move on. Ignoring their battered body and wearied soul, they moved as one towards the door. Jules turned the knob and pulled the door open, she instantaneously came face to face with a smiling assassin with a Heckler and Koch USP hand gun pointed at her head.

She paused, and slowly backed into Sam who backed into Aguila.

The shadow took a step inside saying nothing at all!


	7. The Shadow

**The Shadow **

Aguila, Sam and Jules walked back slowly. The man dressed in dirty jeans and tattered shirt, wore a worn leather hat on his head, continued to point the gun at Jules with steady hand.

"Keep going," he instructed.

They stopped in the middle of the darkened room then the man did something totally unexpected. He removed the magazine from his Heckler and Koch weapon and said, "I mean no harm." He placed both the hand gun barrel and the magazine atop the table separating them from him.

"What the…" they chorused.

The man silenced them by turning on his Streamlight TLR-4 Compact Handgun Laser Sight Flashlight, he aimed the light source at the three of them whilst he kept in the shadows. "I would have preferred to wine and dine to get to know you but these are desperate times which require desperate measures." The accent sounded Chinese.

"I'm here to ask one thing: to keep a back door channel open. Our embassies and consulates are working with your governments as we speak but it's not progressing fast enough. What's happened out there at the Taj Mahal Hotel isn't what it seems. We believe it's not about the sub-continent. It's not about India or Pakistan. It's not about the symbolism that the Taj Mahal hold. It's about us. Our countries. But until we have proof, it remains a theory."

"Who's we?" asked Jules calmly.

The man smiled, "Let me simply tell you an encompassing name, the Chinese Ministry of State Security."

Aguila laughed in derision, the MSS has many tentacles, each department not even knowing what the others are doing. So vast is the bureaucracy it rivals that of the United States and could easily win hands down. "That's not saying anything," he challenged. "And why should we believe you."

From the safety of his darkened corner, the man zeroed in on the American, "Because I have no reason to lie. I have come here to tell you what we suspect, it is only fair that you share what information you have so we can resolve this quickly. My people's lives are at stake."

"How do you even know that we have anything to share?" Sam asked.

"I don't know that you do," he said matter of fact. "But I need you to know the urgency of needing to know what you know, whatever it is."

He turned his attention to Aguila, "You know me only by reputation."

"And what's that?" the American retorted.

"I am who is known as the Shadow." Aguila momentarily stiffened. He exhaled a slow deep breath , this was the man who was for some time thought to be an urban myth. But his reputation among operatives in the field has been growing in legendary status. The Chinese man adjusted his hat to partially cover his eyes, not that it was visible in the dark. He spoke in slow cadence, the monotone belying his sense of urgency.

"On the 1st of March this year, Islamic militants from Xinjiang province hacked 29 people to death and maimed a further 143 people. Kunming in the southern Chinese province of Yunnan is known as the city of eternal spring but its tranquillity was shattered that Saturday night.

"According to eye witnesses, the assailants wore black robes with imprints of the crescent and star, a symbol of Eastern Turkestan, the Uighur name for the Chinese province of Xinjiang. The attack took place a day before the formal opening of the Chinese parliament and three months after a suicide attack in Beijing at the heart of Tiananmen Square which killed two tourists.

"This was an act of terrorism. The violence against innocent civilians including women and children could not be described as anything but an act of terror. Bloodied images of victims have been circulated widely on websites as well as TV and they have provoked both outrage as well as fear.

"Outbursts of violence in Xinjiang which were initially sporadic have become more frequent and deadly since the 2009 riot in Urumqi, the capital of Xinjiang. The city has become the Belfast of China, where Han Chinese and Uighur who have lived side by side in peace for generations, have retreated to their quarters. Sectarian hatred will take years to heal, if at all.

"Now the violence has spilled over beyond Xinjiang. We regard the suicide attack in Beijing last November as the turning point of the battle against terrorism in China. The bigger question we need to ask is why there is an escalation of violence emanating from Xinjiang, home to more than 10 million Turkic-speaking Muslims. Uighur men have travelled to Syria and Afghanistan to join the jihad. A group of Uighur was captured by American forces in Afghanistan in 2001 and detained in Guantanamo Bay for nearly a decade before being released. Kyrgyz border guards also recently killed 11 Uighur militants after an intense gun battle."

"What's that got to do with us?" asked Jules confused.

"Surely you know the adage 'my enemy's enemy is my friend. In politics, there are no permanent enemies, no permanent friends - just permanent interest. It is in the interest of China and your nations to figure out what this is about. We are friends, we can help each other out or more of us will die before you know it."

"Why should we trust you?" asked Aguila.

The Shadow raised his face to look at the American from under his hat, "Because I know your deepest and darkest secret and I have kept it to myself. For instance, I know that you are retired from Special Forces – officially. But that you are the President's man, his own personal ears and eyes. Do you know how much that information would fetch in the big wide world of terror?"

_Jesus_, thought Aguila. As far as he was aware, only three people knew of his appointment to the Office of the President. The man who recruited him, the President and himself, Juan Salvador y Ruiz.

Sam resisted turning to his friend, full of admiration_. Fuck me, he serves at the pleasure of the President and you wouldn't know it if you put him under the microscope_.

"Your secret is safe with me." Then he tilted his head just so, "Just goes to show what money can buy. Everyone has a price Mr Ruiz." Aguila felt the hair on his neck stood. The implication of what he has just said was so terrifying. What else have the Chinese bought? And what can't they not considering they have reached inside the White House?

He turned his attention to Sam and Jules, "As for you two, I don't know who you are and what part you play here but you've found yourselves in my web. It can get very sticky," he said not disguising the menace.

"Before I go," he said as he dug deep inside his pocket. When he pulled his hand out he was holding a crucifix, a flash of recognition came to Aguila's eyes, "Where did you…?"

The Shadow took a step forward, placed the crucifix gingerly on the table, "A gift of goodwill," he said. "You dropped it in the hide you were holed up in, your only careless mistake so far. Lucky it was I who found it."

"You've been following me…"

"I told you my enemy's enemy is my friend. We have a common enemy, so without you knowing it I've had your back. I don't care to do my own hunting, Aguila." Calling the ex Delta Force man by his codename for the first name. "You hunt, I follow - shadowing your every move. You have brought me to the trail of some heavy hitting enemies, for that I thank you."

Pointing to the religious artifact, he said, "Don't lose it again." He picked up his gun and streamlite from the table, "I will keep in touch," with that final word, he hastened out and disappeared into the night.

Aguila picked up the crucifix, a gift from his deeply religious mother. It was the only thing of hers that he valued, she passed away three years ago when he was away on operations. She died alone, in a hospital room surrounded by just ghost of the past. He hasn't forgiven himself for it. He put it on with a prayer then he was all business. He placed a call to the consulate to report in. Someone there arranged for transport.

Five minutes later, the Shadow spied them as they boarded a darkened, bullet proof vehicle, the missing link between a tank and a SUV.

* * *

Half way across the globe, the Department of State has matched 80% of the hostages and the deceased to passports of travellers. And nearly all local staff have been identified by relatives. The remaining 10% will be matched in no time, the analysts staying back and refusing to take leave until every single one has been identified.

* * *

Sam, Jules and Aguila reached the safety of the consulate within ten minutes. They were met top level cryptoanalysts, "This way," said one bespectacled middle-aged man. They were brought into the belly of the building, to a windowless secure room that can easily cause claustrophobia . The sterile space has all the best electronic technology money can buy.

"Let's download what you've got."

They handed all the SIM cards, "Will this take long?" asked Sam.

"No, why? Have you anywhere to go?"

"No, actually we need sleep."

The Geeks laughed and pointed to the floor. "You're welcome."

The trio didn't need an invitation, they curled up on the floor and went to sleep, special forces style.

The machines churned with analysis using all sorts of algorithm. In the end, it was human eye and human brain that will pick up the secret. And it would be shocking discovery. The secret was code named Operation Mincement. For students of history, of which all analysts, spies and military personnel were, it was one lesson in history they were absolutely familiar with.

* * *

Meantime, inside the Taj Mahal Hotel, the terrorists were rubbing their hands in glee. Huddled together away from the camera, they rejoiced in the thought that whether they lived or died after tonight they were due to grace heaven with their presence.

"Three more hours," mouthed the organiser. The home grown terrorist from Bristol, "for Armageddon. These infidels from China in Asia, to Australia in the Pacific, to America and Canada in the Americas, to France and the UK in the Europe and to Dubai in the Middle East. All those infidels will pay."

**Three more hours till Armageddon.**

* * *

General Braddock asked, "What's their ETA?" referring to the Legion, the unit of JTF-2 warriors.

"Two hours, Sir."

It will be close. Way close.


	8. Making Sense of the Senseless

**Making Sense of the Senseless**

Several events unfolded almost at once, giving everyone involved a sense of impending doom, in the half hour since they made it inside the American Consulate in Uttar Pradesh. They ranged from bad to very bad to very, very bad.

Jules haven't made it to forty winks before she sensed Sam was in a bad way. Unable to shake the feeling her husband needed her, she bolted upright on her hunches from her supine position to check on him. He was not well.

He was curled in a foetal position, shaking like a rattle. She touched the exposed back of his neck, he was soaked in sweat and he was burning to the touch. She got up on her feet and moved to face him, that's when she saw the extent of his pain, his face was contorted in agonising affliction, "Sam," she cried in alarm.

Aguila's eye lids flew open at the sound of her voice. "What's wrong?"

"It's Sam," she replied.

She was hovering over him, wiping away the sweat that appeared to be pouring out of his every pore. Sam's bloodshot eyes tried to gaze into her soulful eyes but they wouldn't focus. She has never come close to losing it before, but right now, she felt so helpless. "Sam…"

"It's my leg," he said hoarsely.

Aguila lifted the leg of his pants, removed the shoes and was horror-stricken by the sight of his left leg. Far from having sprained an ankle, Sam was suffering from limb embolism due to the trauma of prolonged limb compression.

"What is it?" she asked the former Special Forces.

"The long and short of it is if we don't get this medically attended to ASAP, he could lose his leg." Turning to Sam, he told him off, "You idiot." Blondie, despite his excruciating pain, grinned back at Aguila.

Jules grabbed the attention of one of the analysts, who were so engrossed with what they were doing they failed to notice the unfolding emergency not a dozen feet behind them. "We need a doctor ASAP," she said with urgency. The desk jockey jumped up from his swivel chair to punched an alarm code on the wall panel, "We should have someone here in the next five minutes," he assured her before returning to his console.

Three minutes later, a consular officer arrived to ask what the emergency was about. "We need medical attention, now."

"On it," she said. Four minutes later, three men from the security unit arrived to stretcher Sam to the infirmary located in the basement of the Consular building. It was a blessing that a medic was on hand to attend, after checking Braddock over, she said with authority though lacking in bedside manner, "You're lucky because complete acute ischaemia leads to extensive tissue necrosis within six hours" which in translation means amputation could have been the only recourse had medical attention been delayed. Judging by what she said Sam had three hours to spare before he lost his left lower extremity.

Sam was sedated after completing what the doctor referred to as a minor surgery, if one could call an hour of fiddling about with what looked like a graft and a shunt minor. "It could have been worse," she said. She looked at the sleeping warrior and murmured to herself, "I don't know how he put up with that pain," shaking her head.

She turned to Jules, "He's resting now… you better rest too. You look like you've been to hell and back."

Jules appraised her reflection on the glass window; she didn't recognise the person staring back at her. She was filthy from head to toe, the grime of humanity stuck to her. She smiled wanly at the doctor, "Thanks," she said, "I'll sleep here if you don't mind."

"I'll be in my office if you need me."

"Thank you."

"My pleasure, glad I could help." With that, the medico left her to her own devices. She was about to lay her head on Sam's bed when Aguila came in to disturb the peace. "Sorry, you're wanted in the war room."

She dragged her weary self to the sterile tactical centre. She was surprised to come face-to-face, in an electronic conference, with six heavy hitters from various countries, one of them her father-in-law.

General Braddock opened the session. She could tell he was trying his hardest to show restraint and maintain professionalism but she could read the overwhelming relief in the General's eyes; and the love; and the concern; and how proud he was of them.

"I understand you neutralised three insurgents, would that be correct?"

"Four actually," she clarified, "Sam took care of another guy right after we sent the message to Aguila here."

"Make that five," corrected Ruiz. "I took out one on the rooftop from 300 metres."

All six top brasses congratulated them.

The Director of the NSA informed them that nearly all the victims of the Taj Mahal Hotel bombing has been identified, "But 21 of them were not among the dead or the hostages. Any ideas?"

"If I was a betting woman," she said, "I would say that they're the hostage-takers. The terrorists were not from the Middle East or the sub-continent, they're from the West… home grown. And may be China, Muslims from Xinjiang Province."

"China? Are you sure?" The question was raised by the head of the Australian Secret Intelligence Service, he eyeballed his Chinese counterpart.

Ruiz interjected, "We're not sure but it can't be discounted under the circumstances. By the way, these 21 you can't identify, what passports are they carrying?"

An analyst on stand-by handed a note to the head of the M16, "Five Americans, three Brits, four Chinese, three Australians, four Canadians, two French."

"I'd start with those," suggested Ruiz.

"We have, as we speak counter-terrorist specialists have been dispatched to seek out their known associates. We just wanted to hear your take on it."

Jules piped up again, "The biggest concern for me is the fact no one has claimed credit for the bombing. They're very quiet; as if being mysterious is part of the plan. Why? And why wasn't there any chatter? How could we have been blind-sided by this?"

"Good question," concurred Ruiz.

"We think we have a handle on the how they organised this mayhem without detection," replied the NSA Director.

"Based on analysis of the SIM cards… where they originated from and from whom you found them, we know they didn't send messages by electronic means or we'd have picked it up with Echelon. They didn't call each other nor did they send text messages. Someone, we shall call him or her the Planner for now, typed the information in the SIM cards. These then were taken across borders physically. It was tedious and time-consuming but effective. It couldn't be intercepted and therefore couldn't be sabotaged and couldn't be altered. I won't bore you with the technical detail suffice it to say that we know this fact to be 100% accurate.

"SIM cards are easy to hide, unlike say… something like a thumb drive. If I want to hide a critical piece of information, what better way is there, than to put them in a SIM card. They don't get checked; doesn't get confiscated by airport security. It looks inconspicuous."

"That's bad news," uttered Jules.

"You can say that again," said General Braddock. "Can you imagine the nightmare of having to check every travellers' SIM cards in the airport, seaport and train stations?"

The NSA Director continued, "It is lucky these insurgents were not trained and highly skilled. Special Forces and spies would have destroyed the SIM cards, not kept them like these guys did."

Ruiz resisted a smile. He, and a bunch of operatives, would cut them in titsy bitsy pieces and swallow them. If anyone wanted to know their shit, they literally have to dive in their shit.

Back on topic, Aguila raised the question Jules raised earlier, "What are they getting from this? The media coverage is wasted on their agenda… assuming they have any. They have made no demands; made no threats. All they've done is held our attention to ransom."

"I'm beginning to think that's the idea. Look at us, we're paralysed in the confusion." said the Director of France's Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure, its premier spy agency.

"I can confirm that," said a voice behind the NSA Director. The Director turned around to see who spoke. He smiled and introduced a woman known only as "D." She has been with the NSA for over ten years and a legend in her own right.

She moved forward to take centre stage. To a T, she fitted the profile of someone who didn't need to prove herself. She never waffled on like the common know-it-all nerd. All she had to do if she had something worthwhile to say was to adjust her eyeglasses and her Boss would know to give her the floor.

She was dressed simply in a long-sleeve white Chambray shirt, long plaid skirt and beige pair of pumps. D didn't bore her audience with facts and figures nor did she regale them with the minutiae of her discovery. She said, without fanfare, "The most often repeated word in the SIM cards was `om' or 'OM' or 'Om'. I went through everything we've got, including the passports you found and emailed to us. One of the passports had a scribble on it, very faint, but it was there, I magnified it and it said, 'Operation Mincemeat' with a smiley face."

Everyone, with the exception of Jules who had no idea what the hell Operation Mincemeat was about said, "Oh my God."

Jules turned to Aguila who mouthed "It's bad. We've dropped the ball."

But D wasn't finished, she said, "Cross-referencing OM with other messages, we found out they intended for the operation to start at 20:00 IST (8:00pm, India Standard Time) and for it to end seven hours later. Ladies and gentlemen, we are now less than three hours to its culmination."

There was a second pause while everyone gathered their wits. Then, the Chinese spy chief said, "The navel gazing ends here… time to get to work. We've got to look under every rock to find out what they're really up to. We've been had."

Almost immediately, the big wall screens became fussy white. Jules turned to Ruiz, "Please explain."

"Operation Mincemeat was a British disinformation plan during World War II, a deception intended to cover up the invasion of Italy from North Africa. The British used a dead body, dressed it in the uniform of a British high-ranking officer and deliberately washed it up on the beach in Punta Umbria from a submarine. The dead body was purportedly someone with "top secret" documents detailing Allied war plans.

"The Germans obtained the documents, it convince them that the Allies planned to invade Greece and Sardinia in 1943 instead of Sicily, which was the actual objective. Hitler mobilised his Troops away from Sicily. It changed the course of the Second World War when Italy fell to Allied hands. It was an effective deception.

"The Taj Mahal Hotel bombing is a deception. While we're all focused on it, trying to figure them out, wondering what it's all about and generally running around like a bunch of headless chickens, they've been planning something else. In less than three hours, it'll go tits up and all because we got so tied up figuring them out."

"On my God," said Jules.


	9. Pressure Cooker

**Pressure Cooker**

If they thought things couldn't get any worst, they were wrong. D realised she made a mistake. She remembered as she was walking back to her office that she and the other analysts had taken nearly an hour to crack the information on Operation Mincement. She was dismayed with herself but made no apologies or excuses. Within two minutes of everyone scrabbling away, she sent a text message to all in her contact list. 'You have less than two hours.'

The reaction to that was close to post traumatic stress. It could only be likened to being prodded with a jolt of electricity. From East to East, North to South, intelligence agencies scrambled, and tried their hardest not to step on each other's toes or trip on each other's feet. The U.S., Australia and Canada had a head-start; at least, as far as they were concerned, it wasn't a guessing game any longer nor was it a process of elimination. The passports taken from neutralised terrorists were as good a start as they could possibly have under the circumstances.

Task Forces were mobilised earlier on, which was partly common sense. Officers have been sent out to find family members or known associates of the deceased. But the problem was it was all murky. The overall picture vague. It was like groping in their way in the dark. All they knew was that there was another target. But what!?

The Canadians and the Australians worked with a sense of urgency, although both Governments were of the belief they were doing it for their American cousins. Or, at a stretch for their British cousins, too. In the back of their minds, Surely, there's no direct threat to Canada or Australia for, historically, there has never been a precedent. They would be proven wrong on this count.

Sgt Parker, on account of his previous role as a negotiator for a tactical police force and his current role as head of the anti-terror response unit, was appointed lead investigator. With very little time to spare, he ordered his Team to "divide and conquer."

"Four Canadians could not be accounted for, one of them is the dead man. I'll take that one, you guys take the other three."

Three counter-terrorist officers rode shot-gun with him on the way to Mohammed Khalid's address as supplied in his passport application. A handsome middle-aged Arabic looking man opened the door, he looked at the Sgt Parker with alarm as he surveyed the presence of uniformed police flanking the Sargent.

Parker disarmed him with a smile, "May I asked to speak with Mohammed Khalid?"

"There's no one of that name here?" replied the gentleman, who spoke with a slight Arabic accent, calmly. Noticing a strong facial similarity between the man and the young man's photograph, he asked, "Do you know this man?" handing over the scanned copy.

"It's my son! What happened to him? Have you found him?" His face crunched with the sense of despair. "Has anything happened to my son?"

"Can we speak inside?"

"Of course, I'm sorry. Please come in." They walked into an average Canadian three-bedroom home. It was no different to any Western house as one could expect. The walls which were painted in pastel colours were decorated with framed photographs of family members, the windows dressed in satiny curtains, the living room furnished with lounges and coffee tables with yet more framed photographs. A television screen was mounted on the wall, below it a X-box and assortment of games, a DVD player and speakers. This could have been my home, he thought, just change the pictures.

The woman of the house came out to meet them. She was, as expected wearing a head scarf, a long sleeved loose blouse and a long colourful skirt; not the stark black burqas favoured by more fundamentalist believers. The man introduced his wife, "This is my wife, Rahil. My name is Abel."

Sgt Parker introduced himself and explained in a few words why he was there. Rahil intuitively connected her son with the Taj Mahal Hotel bombing. "But it can't be, Sgt Parker, my son was never in trouble before. We are a good Muslim family. We are good Canadians. My son wouldn't do any thing like that." She sobbed clutching her bosom. Parker lowered his eyes, feeling her pain – it's so heartbreaking hearing her frantic denials and pleas.

It was Abel who spoke next, "My son was born here, we named him Harun. He's not Mohammed as you allege."

"He is 19," explained Parker. He wouldn't need your permission to change his name." He glanced at his watch, time was fast running out. If D's information and assessment was correct, they have barely 90 minutes to get this all figured out and still have enough time left to stop the madness. The tension in the air crackled. It was getting harder and harder to breathe.

He hesitated to ask but he had to, "Do you have other children?"

"We do, she's 10. She's upstairs studying."

Parker nodded, he couldn't bring himself to bring her into this mess but it was she who presented herself. Overhearing muffle voices, she had crept downstairs and heard the adults' conversation. "Officer," she said in a manner of a child used to being able to speak for herself, "I think you need to speak with Amira. She is my brother's girlfriend." If he had any doubt, of which there was none, that this family was anything but a terrorist haven, it was the fact that this female child was able to speak her mind.

"Miriam!" exclaimed Rahil. "What are you saying?"

"Mummy, he has been seeing her but of course you like any parents, you didn't know." Sgt Parker gave a tiny smile at the brutal honesty of the child.

"Do you know where we can find her?"

Miriam shrugged her little shoulders, "No, Officer...I just always overhear them talking on the phone."

It was getting so very dangerously close to time. The other Units have not reported back which could meant they, too, have hit a brick wall. Sgt Parker on a hunch and believing that this family like any other could be trusted to do the right thing asked, "With your permission can we search his room?"

"Of course," said Abel. "Come this way."

Parker led three other members of the Task Force into Harun/Mohammed's room. His parents waited outside the door holding and comforting each other. It was a typical teenager's room. Huge posters of Ronaldo and Messi dominated the walls. Football and all sort of sports paraphernalia was amassed in a corner, dumped into a basket that was threatening to spill its contents any minute.

"What could turn an ordinary Canadian boy into a terrorist?" Parker muttered, shaking his head.

A computer sat on the study table, it came to life when one of the officers touched the space bar. But it was asking for a password. "No time to mess with this", he murmured to himself.

"Search meticulously," Parker urged.

They divided the room into quadrants. One search the bed, stripping it of its cover. He checked the pillows, removing the covers and slashing them to see if anything but cotton would come out. He checked under it and all around it. Nothing.

One searched the wardrobe. Removing the clothes one at a time and leaving them to pool under his feet. He inspected the shoes, even removing the insoles. He emptied all the backpacks stored on the upper shelf. He knocked on the wall panels to see if there were any hidden compartments. Nothing.

The other searched the desk, tipping out the drawers' contents and went through every piece of scrap paper, and candy wrapper that's accumulated overtime. He checked under the chair, flipped through every pages of books on the book case. Nothing.

Parker knocked on walls, then stomped on the floor board. _There,_ a hallow sound. He lifted the carpet and discovered the outline of a small door. One of the officers took his pocket knife out and fished at the edge. When it lifted, they found what may be considered evidence of a plan.

They looked at their timepiece almost simultaneously, 45 minutes to go till showtime. Just then, his phone blared out a call. "Parker."

"Boss, we something and nothing," said the man leading the second unit.

"Talk to me."

"We think it's planned for 5:30 pm. But unfortunately, we don't know what will happen at 5:30pm and where. It's a little too cryptic for my liking, Boss."

Parker looked at the map his team member was holding. "I think I know where but I don't know how. Let's go!"

They marched out of the door, Mr and Mrs Khalid were still standing by the door, anxiously waiting. Parker apologised on behalf of his team, "I'm sorry for the mess."

Abel grabbed Parker's arms and said, "Please believe us, we know nothing."

He touched the man's hand and said, "I believe you. An officer will come and stay with you. For your protection more than anything else. Thank you for your cooperation."

Parker and company rushed out to their SUV, he checked his watch - 30 minutes to go.

He paused and swore, it's now peak hour traffic! The roads would be congested and the commuters would be all out to get to and fro. It was a freaking nightmare. The intended target: The Union Station! How the hell would he get there in time!

He had another message to send, this time to his counterparts, "Target: Union Station." At least, he thought, they didn't have to worry on their end. But he was dead wrong! He just as quickly discovered Toronto was not the only target.

Australian authorities discovered a bomb was due to detonate inside a full-packed commuter train travelling from the Central Coast of New South Wales headed for Sydney at 7:30am.

The Americans uncovered a plot to reduce the Statue of Liberty to smithereens at 5:30pm.

The British and French were staggered to learn that a London bound train from Paris was loaded with a suitcase bomb, expected to detonate at 10:30 pm.

With 30 minutes to go Beijing was still trying to uncover the threat to China. Everyone was despairing and perspiring blood. While Dubai was unaware of any threats to its safety!

An analyst noted something that knocked off their sails. The time of detonation around the world was timed to be simultaneous: 10:30 at night in London is 7:30 in the morning in Sydney is 5:30 in the evening New York and in Toronto.

_**The world would not be fighting spot fires, it would be fighting a conflagration!**_


	10. Someone's Gotta Do It!

**Someone's Gotta Do It!**

Around the time Sgt Parker and his unit were running down their lead, the Archangel and his team were still in the air getting occasional update from HQ on the ground, General Braddock being the main conduit.

After that ground breaking electronic conference, the General asked his daughter-in-law to stay on the line, "There are people I want you to meet," he said.

While the technicians adjusted the satellite feeds, she looked down on the palm of her right hand. The wound was red and swollen still and piercingly painful. The affliction has crept up to her elbow, a worrying sign. Nevertheless, there was something urgent that needed her attention at the present time. First things first, she thought. She just has to get through this briefing and get through the pain barrier then she'll sort herself out.

It took several minutes but the sophisticated transmission switched to the Air France Bus ferrying the JTF-2 Commandos. It's a fuzzy feed at best but at least the audio was clear.

The General introduced the man sitting in the middle of a 12-man Unit as "Michael Roman", Team Leader of the "Legion". She wouldn't know the origin of the Unit's unofficial name, but it would have to do with the fact that six of the members have angelic names. Michael, Gabriel, Ariel, Raphael, and the unusual Hanael and Samael. They were also veterans of the war on terror.

"Ma'am," was the short and sweet response from the Archangel.

"Hi," she said, "to you all," as her eyes scanned the full screen for faces. There was a chorus of "Ma'am" amongst the men and a slight nod of heads.

"They need to hear from you first-hand, what happened in there." said the General.

She related for a second time the 'incidence' and the aftermath. When she got to the point in the story of Sam taking the first terrorist there were hoots and claps which made her smile despite her pain. She skipped her own acts of heroism feeling it wasn't the time and the place to strut her stuff. Her story-telling fast-forwarded to Sam's second kill and Aguila's sniper shot. "In total, we took out five."

The Archangel smiled, "The maths doesn't add up," he said.

General Braddock interjected, "She took out two on her own."

"And you skipped that one out," said the tough guy who had been brief about her profession prior to this so-called meeting. He was impressed with the lack of swagger.

Going back on topic, he continued on. "We need to gather Intel from you regarding the battlefield. This will be a close quarter battle if we ever saw one, any thing you can tell us would be massive help."

"I get you," she said. She could see the shape of a smart electronic gadget on the Unit members' lap, no doubt a detailed lay-out of the Taj Mahal Hotel has been downloaded to them. "What would you like to know?"

"Are there booby traps?"

"We didn't see any. We didn't see any effort to rig the place with explosives or any undertaking to booby trap the place but it's been two hours since we ex-filled from the rooftop. Many things can happen in two hours."

"What weapons were they carrying?"

"Mainly AK-47s. The dead bodies we searched carried ammunitions but no secondary weapons, not even a knife." They all fell silent, giving each other meaningful glances. She carried on, "I know right... it doesn't make sense. It had the feeling of an adventure gone wrong rather than a well-planned terror plot and that's what makes it scarier. We don't know what we're dealing with here."

"What's the..." The Archangel's question was interrupted by severe turbulence, for several seconds the fuzzy feed went haywire and the audio faded in and out. The men held on for dear life as the plane went through a vomit-inducing bounces in the air. She didn't realised she was holding her breathe until Michael said, "Whew, that was fun!"

"Yeah, let's do that again," hollered a young man, the pup in the litter. A mere 23-year-old, a kid by Special Forces standard. The Archangel stared him down and said, "Down boy!"

He smiled cheekily and waved to Jules, "Hello Petit Miam." Petit, French for tiny and miam, French for yummy. The guy next to him gave him a head slap, "Stop mucking about" then, he looked in the camera and added, "Sorry about that Ma'am, Miss Petit Miam." Jules and all the guys had a laugh, including the Archangel.

The General nodded appreciatively, it's always a good sign when fighting men are relaxed and able to banter before contact. It meant they weren't worried, unnecessarily scared or up-tight. Relaxed is good. But when their feet hit the ground, he was sure their demeanour would morph to all business mode.

The Archangel turned serious again. "Looks like you've been badged with a Special Forces nickname. Back on topic... what's the average age of these people?"

"I can't say for sure but the two I took out were definitely young and amateurs, armed but amateur. It was dark so my assessment could be impaired... but at a guess...," she said hesitating, "I'd say, early 20s. But the guy Sam took out in the fire exit would be older, about 40."

Then she added something she didn't realise at that time was revelatory. "There's something that's been bothering me because it doesn't make any sense at all. One of the guys I took out was wearing a Dastar. As far as I know, only Sikhs wear this type of turban."

"A Sikh fighting with a Muslim?" the General voiced their collective concern.

The Archangel was perturbed, "That can't be right, Sikhs and Muslims, they hate each other."

"I know right... although I'd say hate is a big word. Let's just say they don't like each other because their religious beliefs are so polar opposite. But I know what I saw. As a Police Officer in a major cosmopolitan city, it's my job to be able to identify the ethnic groups living in our city. I'm trained to be able to differentiate them by their cultural identities, like the type of head wear they use."

This revelation was very concerning but the discussion was interrupted by an announcement from the cockpit. The Captain has announced their imminent approach to Agra Airport where a Black Hawk helicopter was waiting to transport the Unit to the Taj Mahal Hotel.

Before disconnecting the Comm, Jules said, "Be careful, please."

"Sure will, Petit Miam."

* * *

Back in Australia, they have been pursuing all manner of leads and persons of interest. Profilers and analysts, and negotiators, were brought on board, all with high level clearance. Simultaneously, the same was happening in the U.S and the U.K.

Interrogation techniques have changed massively since the knee-jerk reaction post 9/11 when torturing suspects became de rigour. Certainly, the Americans were not alone in this. Others have been known to be as ruthless. But if there was one thing they learned during this dark period, it was this: Torture doesn't work. All it achieved was muddy the water because people, whether guilty or innocent and many of them have been innocent, would tell their torturer anything, including sell their mother to stop the pain. They'd say whatever the torturer wants to hear. And in many instances, governments were left to chase their own tails, in a wild goose chase.

The only thing proven to work was the fear of torture itself, but a highly trained operative would take hours or days or weeks to break down, time they didn't have.

It was time to use a different kind of interrogation technique, that of tapping into the humanity of people. Relatives and friends of suspects were taken into a room, some alone, some in groups but always in the presence of a good cop. No force was used. No raised voices. No threats.

The Australian profiler showed a woman a picture of baby, the skull crushed by a falling debris, lifeless and broken. He didn't say anything, no words would suffice to describe the horror. The woman closed her eyes and said a prayer in her native tongue. In between sobs, she turned the photograph over and pushed it away, "Why are you doing this? Why are you showing this to me?"

"Your son, where is he?"

"I told you he went to visit our family in Sri Lanka. My son wouldn't do this. We raise him up to be a good Tamil."

The interrogator shook his head, he was nursing a killer headache. Initially, he was told it was spearheaded by Muslim extremists. Then he learned one of the terrorist was Sikh, now a Tamil? It just didn't make any sense at all. He carried on nevertheless.

"I don't judge your son, I only need to get more information to stop whatever carnage had been planned. Your son may not even know what's been planned. Maybe he was unwittingly roped into this. By helping us, you'll be helping him. Tell me, what activities was he doing before he left?"

"He was doing well, he was working as an apprentice for NSW Transport for over three months before he left suddenly."

The hairs on his neck and arms stood. "NSW Transport. Bus, rail or ferry?"

"Train."

"Oh my God!" he mumbled to himself.

Suddenly, the door flew open, an analyst rushed in without knocking. It was six in the morning in Sydney, and the air conditioning was working but he was sweating buckets. Without pausing, he said, "We pinged his three best friends mobile phones, they're in a train carriage bound for Sydney."

"Where is it now?"

"It's in Gosford."

"Gosford City?"

"Yes, bound for Sydney. If there's a bomb in there and it's due to explode at 7:30 am, then it'll happen in Central."

Trying not to panic, he said, "Call the Transport people."

"We have and we've alerted the ASIO, the Ministry of Defense and the SASr and the 6th Aviation Regiment based on Holsworthy Barracks has been scrambled."

The interrogator looked at his watch, "Fuck! How do we stop this in time?"

* * *

Jules was done briefing the Legion, she went down to see Sam who was still sleeping. The sedation was good for him. She stroked his forehead. He was running a slight fever, no doubt she said to herself, it's his body trying to defeat infection. Satisfied he won't be waking any time soon, she sought out the doctor and showed her her hand.

The medico examined it. "He's done a good job suturing it. Painful?"

"Very," she replied with as much stoicism as she could muster. "It's my firing hand. Do you think it'll affect my ability to fire a weapon?"

The doctor looked at her, then at the hand and then back at her, then thought to herself: _Good question_.

Jules reading her facial expression said, "Forget I asked." She turned away, tears rolled down her eyes. What price must she pay for justice and freedom? The doctor called after her, she turned around slowly to give her time to wipe the tears away.

"Let me at least clean it and give you some pain killer." Jules' shoulders sagged, smiled and accepted the offer. It was the first time in so many hours someone thought of her. It made her cry some more. The tough exterior has cracked a little!


	11. The Legion has Landed

**The Legion has Landed**

Jules wearily stretched out on the lounge, her small frame fitting snugly on the three-seater. She glanced at his sleeping form just to make sure he was breathing. Sam looked serene in his sleep. Her eyes caught sight of his black canvas bag lying undisturbed on the bedside drawer. Remembering the supply of sweets he sequestered from the hotel, she forced her aching body to reach up for it, tipped out the contents and out came not just Special Forces food but a Sig Sauer and a knife.

"Oh my god," she exclaimed. She didn't see any secondary weapons... but Sam did!_ I gave them the wrong information_. _No secondary arms and not even a knife, my ass!_

Sudden injection of adrenaline propelled her to move, practically vaulting out of the room. She charged into the tech room demanding to be patch through to Archangel. The Geek tired but to no avail, "Sorry Ma'am, I can't reach them. They're patched to the Indian Special Forces, they're active now, Ma'am."

"Jesus." Physically exhausted, emotionally worn down and now, psychologically distraught. She left the room to find a place to vent her anger on her stupidity; with the wrong information she provided she might have signed the Commandos death sentence.

She was kicking the hell out of a wall, slapping it with the palms of her hand, crying her heart out. _Stupid, stupid, stupid_. She slumped down on the floor weeping, but not finding the energy to wail. Aguila found her. Strong hands gripped her shoulders, picked her up, "Talk to me," he said gently, brown passionate eyes boring into her.

"I gave them the wrong Intel," she said in a heart-breaking sob.

"Who?"

"The Commandos. I told them the terrorists didn't have secondary weapons, not even a knife. What was I thinking? " she said in between sobs. She was beside herself with worry.

Aguila forced her to get up and guided her to a seat. "Listen to me, they're Commandos, they're trained to check for secondary firearms. I was Delta Force, if someone told me the enemies are carrying toy guns, I would want to see for myself it's a toy gun."

"You don't understand," she said, "they could die…"

He wouldn't, couldn't, let her dwell on it, "If they die, it would mean they have set aside their training and were careless. It would be their fault, not yours."

She closed her eyes willing herself to believe the President's Man. "What was I thinking?" She said, clearly unable to forgive herself.

"If this was a Hollywood script," he said, "you wouldn't make a mistake. You'd say everything perfectly. You'd always hit the bull's eye and you'll always look pretty. But we're human. You're human, despite the fact you might think you're Wonder Woman." She smiled weakly at the comment.

Casting a thousand yard stare, he continued. "There are images lurking in our minds. Sometimes, the images from the past blends with the present and you can't tell which one is which so... don't be too hard on yourself."

Turning his sight back on her, he added, "Look at you, you're shaking, your body is not even generating enough heat to warm itself. You need to rest. He will need you when he wakes up." He escorted her back to Sam's recovery room. "I'll get you water," he said. Jules obediently sat on the three-seater, she was too bone-weary to protest.

Aguila watched her protectively from a kitchenette connected via an adjoining door to the Doctor's office. He dropped a quick dissolving sedative in her drink. He walked slowly back to her making sure the glass shows no tell-tale bubbles.

"Here."

She thankfully took the glass of water, drank it straight down and was drowsy within seconds. Aguila laid her down the three-seater and covered her with a blanket. "Sweet dreams."

* * *

The American hero limped back up to the tech room, he has urgent business to attend to. Upon entering the tech room, he nodded to the geek indicating he was ready to report in. Advanced communication channel patched through to the Office of the President, with another nod, the geek excused himself.

"Mr President."

"I didn't know you're in India," replied the Man in charge.

"I was just passing through when shit happened." The President nodded. He knew, of course, that Aguila was in Agra on personal business; to comfort the widow of his interpreter who was killed during their last assignment together. He also knew the ex-Delta Force has given the widow and her children financial support. The Commander in Chief looked in secret admiration_, I picked the right man_.

"You have something to report."

"Nothing you don't already know. The Australians are dealing with the Tamils, the Canadians the Muslims, there is also a suspected Sikh involved. You've probably heard from Pentagon that MI6 has discovered that the missing British citizens have a common Algerian connection. And, I have it from a back door channel that the Chinese have found out the missing Chinese passport holders are of Tibetan bloodline. And, as we've heard just half an hour ago, the Americans are of Ukrainian heritage yet no religious affiliation."

"Tibetans are peaceful people," replied the President thoughtfully.

"Indeed, they are. But we know that when people are pushed against the wall…." He let the rest of his statement remain unsaid.

"So Xi Jinping's government is not up against the Uighur Muslims at present?"

"No, Mr President."

"What's your assessment?"

Not one to mince words, he gave the President his honest opinion. "The face of terror has changed, I'm afraid. I'm not at liberty to tell who… but he said something that struck me, and it may be at play here. He said, 'My enemy's enemy is my friend.' It seems our enemies have forged a coalition. They have banded together and plotted a scenario so diabolical we are hard pressed to cope."

The President formed a steeple with his fingers and closed his eyes as if in contemplation. "Ruiz… the Free World is in trouble."

"Yes, Mr President, we all are."

* * *

The helicopter approached the rooftop of the Taj Mahal Hotel, twelve black clad cyborgs fast roped down the helo. With practiced stealth, they leap frogged to cover each other from the front and back.

On the flight over, the Archangel has given them their assignment, search and clear all rooms, one at a time. They've been given their floors and now it was time for action. They clung to their JTF-2 motto. Facta, Non verba. Deeds, not words.

First to move in was the second in command, Gabriel nicknamed Slayer. He opened the rooftop door, looked down on the man missing part of his head. He checked for booby traps. After several minutes, using signs he signaled to his team, 'Clear.'

They raced down the stairs left panthers on the prowl. Heel and toe. Heel and toe.

In a beautifully choreographed manner, two peeled off to check the sixth floor. Knees slightly bent, finger of the trigger on their assault weapon set on semi-automatic, their eyes on the sight of their scope, they focused on the search.

Two peeled off to check the fifth, then the fourth... until everyone were where they were supposed to be. It was tedious work but necessary. They had to be careful, one misstep and it would be game over, with no chance of reset.

After half an hour, they converged on the foyer. They approached stealthily. Another half an hour and they have the dead and the wounded surrounded but not one terrorist in sight.

The Archangel spoke to his Indian counterpart on his headset, "Tango One, this is Bravo two, did anyone leave the building?"

"Negative," came the reply. "We have snipers on roofs, on the ground and in the air. No one left the building."

The Commandos surveyed the room, all they saw were starving, weak hostages.

The Archangel voiced what they were all thinking, "Fuck!"

Eighteen terrorists gone with the wind! How the hell…..


	12. Just in the Nick of Time

**Just in the Nick of Time**

The Archangel nodded to two of his team members to search the foyer. With a nod, the youngest ever JTF-2 Commando, French-Canadian Alain Dupont nicknamed Pup and his buddy Samael, nickname Supernova, commenced a search. Not long after, Pup returned to have a word with the team leader.

They found a pile of weapons, AK47s, hand guns, passports, and disguises in one of the reception offices. Yet, no one has left the building. Common sense told them one thing was clear: the terrorists weren't missing, they're hiding in plain sight. They've joined the ranks of the wounded.

They were pressed for time, it was now just 40 minutes before doomsday. A search and an interrogation just won't work. But God was smiling on them this day. As the Archangel scanned the faces of the vulnerable hostages, one boy, about eight years of age, pointed to the man sitting next to him.

The Archangel smiled at the boy, pointed his Heckler and Koch MP5A3 sub machine gun at the man. He motioned for the terrorist to stand with the barrel of his German-made gun. The man gradually prepared to stand but on his way up, he gave the boy a resounding thump on the head. The child keeled over, nursed his head but with an uncharacteristic toughness refused to cry.

The terrorist stood grinning like a hyena, daring the Archangel to do something about it. Pup adjusted his MP53 to fire one shot, he pressed the trigger and it singed the man's hair. "Do it again and the next bullet will be between your eyes."

Seeing what the little boy had done, the adults in the throng of hostages found courage in his action and did the same. Before you an say 'Boo' everyone was pointing at someone until all terrorists were identified. They were counting on running the time down to its final minute but someone forgot to tell a little boy he wasn't supposed to tell.

With less than twenty minutes to go, the Archangel contacted Tango One, "We got them."

**Toronto**

Traffic congestion meant road travel wasn't an option, and with less and less time to spare, it was decided the only way to move Sgt Parker was by helicopter but there was no where to land in the heavily lived in suburb. The only park surrounded by too many trees and power lines.

The helicopter pilot a former Canadian Navy pilot suggested winching Parker up to Central Station. A search and rescue personnel was soon dangling down a cable to reach ground. He clipped Sgt Parker to the cable and wrapped two legs around him. "One word of advice, don't look down.' The Police Academy head made the sign of the cross, giving the rescue officer a reason to laugh.

Travel time was merely 15 minutes but it felt like hours. He prayed for no wind. "No wind, Lord Jesus," he prayed in earnest.

The cherubic face former SRU-head finally let himself relax when his feet touched the ground. Team One Team Leader, First Officer Spike Scarlatti was already waiting. Perimeter has been set up and people have been evacuated as soon as START found out the target nearly half an hour ago. The excuse given to the public was 'gas leak.'

"Boss, no way to find that bomb in time. I suggest you use your power to shut down the mobile communication providers and operators. There is a big chance this bomb would be triggered by a remote device or by cell phone." Scarlatti's facial expression was one of resignation, "But if it's on timer, we're doomed."

But the optimist that he is, he won't be defeated, with as much hope as he could muster, he added, "But these days hardly anyone uses timers. Boss, we're running out of time."

"Good idea," Sgt Parker called General Braddock and passed the message of what can be done. "The least we can do! It's too late to do a grid search."

"Let's do it." Using National Security Act, the Government shut down all mobile communication providers. It started with Rogers Wireless, then it escalated down the line to Telus, Bell, and then Dave wireless. It impacted all brands and subsidiaries from Chatr to Virgin. People howled in protest over the blanket lack of mobile reception, not knowing why it happened.

The Government, to prevent widespread panic, announced that the blanket communication failure was due to a massive electrical storm south of the border. Where south of the border no one knew.

But everyone who knew the truth, from foot patrol to the Prime Minister held their collective breathe as minutes ticked down. Sgt Parker and Scarlatti paced the perimeter of Central Station expecting the worse. When the clock run down to exactly 5:30 pm, Toronto Time, and a bomb hasn't exploded everyone breathe a sigh of relief.

Scarlatti bellowed, "Now, everybody! We need to find it."

The perimeter remained tightly guarded. It's now a matter of finding that bomb. Until that device was found, no one was making a phone call from their cell. EVER! Talk about being held to ransom!

**Hawkesbury Bridge, just North of Sydney City**

The message was passed on to the train driver who was told the absolute truth the moment they knew the fact of the matter over an hour ago. He was told through NSW Transport, while waiting at Gosford Station to close the doors, step on it and not to stop along the route. The train hurtled at speed, the few clueless passengers mostly Sydney-bound were pleased at the suddenly unexpected 'Express' trip.

The counter-terrorism unit based in Holsworthy Barracks south of Sydney moved fluidly. They've prepared for something like this but they never, ever expected that one day it would actually happen. The man, known only as the Boss said, "Stop the train at Wonbadyne Station, get the passengers out. We will take over from there and drive it on the Hawkesbury Bridge, it's the least populated area north of Sydney."

The beautiful Hawkesbury, home to Aboriginal arts engraved in rocks, pristine waterways, native flora and fauna, tourists destination, laid back township of ordinary people is about to taste its first experience of harshness. It boggled the mind.

In rapid fire manner, the Boss gave orders, "Suspend all trains going north-bound and south-bound. Get the bomb squad in-bound by helo. Get the Water Rats in boat patrol on the Hawkesbury, now. Yesterday, gentlemen, yesterday."

Remembering the terrorist's friends, he asked, "Which carriage are they on?"

The Profiler suggested they use a Tamil fluent intelligence officer to call one of the numbers. A man called Ali was found in the Australian Security Intelligence Office, part of the threat assessment team.

Ali braced himself, speaking in flawless Tamil, he asked, "Is this Paris?"

"Yeah, who are you?"

"Ali, I'm a friend of Hanif, he said to meet you. I'm waiting at Hornsby Station, which carriage are you on?"

"Five." Ali used his hand to indicate the number, "Ok, see you in twenty minutes." The information was passed on down the line.

"How long till the train get to Wonbadyne?"

"Ten minutes."

The Boss checked his Rolex, 06:40. _God, we're cutting it fine._

As soon as the train arrived at Wonbadyne Station, police officers in plain clothes and unarmed swarmed the train, except carriage five where three of Hanif's friend were riding. "We need everyone out of the train ASAP." One little old lady refused to budge. A police officer frustrated at the cantankerous woman hefted her bodily in a fireman's lift, "I've no time for this."

Stealthily, black clad SAS raided the train, half crouched so they weren't seen through the windows, Hanif's friends were still none the wiser.

The second the train was empty except for carriage five, a Special Forces soldier took over the driver and drove the train to Hawkesbury Station. His Team mates were already in play in carriages four and six with enough fire power to start a war.

The train stopped suddenly. When it remained stationary for a full minute, the passengers in carriage five started to worry. Do you know what's going on?" he asked his mates.

"No idea."

Without warning, the doors to carriage four and six opened. Noiselessly, twelve men surrounded the Tamil men, it was as if they just materialised instantaneously.

"Don't touch the bag," the Team Leader said.

"This bag?" said a boy, no older than the SAS leader's first born. He was a clean shaven 18 year old.

"Do you know what's in it?"

"No idea but Hanif said to take it to Sydney."

The new face of terrorism. Using unsuspecting kids as their courier. The twelve SAS men pointed their assault rifles at them and said, "Move. Now."

They moved along petrified as told. "We've done nothing wrong," cried the young one. He was so scared he wet his pants. _Poor sod._

As soon as they were out on the bridge, ten SAS men clipped themselves in a harness with the Tamil boys and rappelled down to the water. They boarded on speed boats and were driven to an undisclosed location. Two SF guys remained on board to disable the bombs. "Jesus," exclaimed one. "It's nerve gas."

The Boss listening on the open comm asked, "Can you disable it?"

Before putting their gas masks on, the man nicknamed Redback said, "Yeah Boss... please tell my wife I love her."

"You tell her yourself."

"And mine too, Boss. Tell her I love you."

"Bloody soppy sods, get to work."

The two men winked at each other, with steady nerves and hands they prepared to disable the nerve gas container. If anything else untoward happens, or should they get it wrong, they have protection but the innocent people still sleeping in their beds may never wake up. In usual black humour, through his face mask, one said, "Oh well, at least they won't know what hit them."

**Across the Atlantic**

The Pentagon and the men and women in the Cobra Room in the U.K. Have received words that both Toronto and Sydney were safe. But they were still in peril!


	13. You Win Some

**You Win Some**

The U.S. And the U.K. were still in the last stages of diffusing the situation. But China was no where close and time was running out!

Over an hour ago, American and British counter-terrorism units have figured out where the bombs were planted.

**New York City**

It was a matter of all hands on deck. And all manners of strategy put into play!

First, all water crafts were ordered stopped! Small pleasure crafts, big boats, commuter ferries, nothing was exempted. Next, people were herded off the islands, both Liberty State and Battery Park. Officers of the National Park Service, the local government agency in charge of protecting the Statue of Liberty and its parks were relieved that, at least, viewing time at the Statue was over. It closed at 15:30 hour. "Thank God, we don't have to get tourists from up there," said one of the officers pointing at the crown.

But there were multitudes still to be evacuated from the grounds of the islands. Park officers, police, rangers, including those who were supposedly off duty, went out in force to move people on. Frequent announcements were made urging people to either leave by ferry or light rails.

Ferries were idling on the dock, waiting for tourists and locals to board. The Hudson-Bergen Light Rail was operating from the entrance of the Liberty State Park going one way only, departing to take passengers to Newport (New Jersey) Station.

A grey haired man challenged a uniformed NPS officer on being accosted, "What's going on?" he asked rudely. The officer politely replied, with a tinge of sarcasm, "We have received a threat so we're evacuating everyone."

"Hogwash!" he said but couldn't get off the island fast enough.

While the evacuation was under way, counter-terrorist units have arrived en masse in helicopters armed with hi-tech explosive detection devices. Tourists looked up. They looked on initially in wonderment at the sight of dozens of military birds flying overhead; then, sudden onset of fear gripped them.

It took only one person to voice this fear for panic to ensue. "Shit, something's going on, man." That's when the orderly queues broke up and people started to push forward. Whatever was happening or was about to happen, they weren't keen to play supporting cast. Officers manning the ferry and rail queues had a hard time ordering people back in line. In the end, majority of the injuries suffered were cause by people panicking and jostling to be first on board transport.

Once the last of the anti-terror troops disembarked, some of the tourists were herded to the helicopters to be flown away. The quicker they could empty the park, the better, time was running.

NPS argued strongly that the bomb could not have been planted in the Statue itself, it being protected by state of the art sniffers and metal detectors at the entrance, the same used to protect airports. But just to be on the safe side, clearing it had to be done.

Half an hour after the evacuation started, the park was empty except for a few NPS officers and police who remained with the bomb squad and the cyborg looking anti-terror troopers. It was their sworn duty to protect Lady Liberty and damn if anyone thought they'd abandon ship at the first sign of trouble.

After a thorough search, no bomb was found. Not even a strand of wire. Not a nut. Not a bolt. Not a piece of shrapnel.

But at exactly 17:15 hour, an urgent text message came through to their pagers. **A run-away yacht is on approach and at great speed. **

_Oh my God_, an NPS officer looking out to the water saw it coming and made the sign of the Cross. It was heading straight at the Statue. _Dear God, how much explosives is that yacht carrying._

17:20 hour. Every anti-terror cyborg bravely stood and knelt where they were, without regard to their own health and safety, and aimed whatever weapon they were carrying at the yacht. They pressed the trigger and didn't let up unless they had to reload the magazine. Bullets whizzed from every direction, from the windows of the Statue's crown to the park directly in the path of the water craft. Most of them landed near it and some were way out of range, but a few found its mark although not where it counted. Coming at them at 60 knots (roughly 69 mph), it was a hard target even for the best of snipers.

But the men stood their ground regardless, urged on mutely by the Lady wearing a crown with seven spikes, which some people believe represent the seven seas and the seven continents of the world. The NPS official librarian though says otherwise, "The spikes are sun rays, and the circle is simply a halo or what in art is called a nimbus, showing she is divine." The men, they seem to be saying by their very action, 'Whatever, she's not going any where.'

Seconds winded down...17:25 hour!

**Five minutes to impact.**

Six Black Hawk helicopters emerged at speed from behind the Lady, positioned by the door were soldiers armed with heat heating missile. The birds hovered high above the Lady, at precisely the same time, the men pressed the trigger. Five heat seeking missiles erupted and hit its mark. Then in a beautifully choreographed motion, the birds simultaneously peeled off higher into the sky to avoid the back blast. The pilots sure they've hit the target before it exploded.

The yacht flared up into one massive fireball. The explosives on board and the diesel engines howled into an ear splitting, earth shaking, percussive series of booms. The noise so loud it could be heard as far as Manhattan. Deathly debris went everywhere, several of the men were closed enough to be hit but thankfully the most severe injuries were hearing loss and imbalance.

It was only after the danger had passed that the men fell where they stood or knelt. With exhaustion and the sudden ebbing of adrenalin some fainted, not that any one would admit to it.

**London**

The bomb was on board the last Eurostar train bound for London from Paris. It would arrive in London at 10:39 pm but the bomb was scheduled to explode at 10:30 pm. The bastards who planted it wanted to make sure no one, not a soul, was going to get off that train alive.

They were meant to be incinerated! All of them. Unrecognisable. Unidentifiable.

"Bastards!" huffed the Chief of the Metropolitan Police.

The French were as enraged. More than 80% of the passengers of this particular train were French citizens. The plan had it succeeded would have been something to gloat about for years to come: Two birds with one stone. French citizens and French and English infrastructure, the Channel Tunnel. It would be one major blow for the terrorists and zilch for the prime citizens of Europe.

"Where is the train now?"

"Boss, the 21:21 train from Paris Gare Du Nord is now halfway to London."

"Stop all trains. And ask the driver to stop that train to the closest escape hatch en route."

The message was received loud and clear. Anti-terror units, members of Special Forces were mobilised from both sides of the Channel and sent scurrying into it, when even the rats were scurrying out. It was brave of them to do so because this bomb was on a timer. It couldn't be diffused unless at least one brave man snip the wire or a robot could figure it out fast enough to disable it.

Along the length of the Tunnel were escape hatches for purpose of evacuation. The train halted where anti -error units were standing ready to assist, armed to the teeth. Passengers were led down along the track and into a labyrinthine passage way. Firemen, field medic, police officers were on hand to give assistance to those who were unable to help themselves and those who were overtaken with anxiety.

As the carriages emptied, anti-terror units moved in to clear it. Some went under the carriages to check for bombs, others checked the roof.

It was searched meticulously until at 21:40 hour, the bomb was found! Two men in a bomb suit struggled to reach it. It was mercilessly attached to the roof of one of the carriages. It was almost impossible to position oneself balanced on the roof in full gear. Everyone held their breath when the men, one French and the other English, decided to remove their bomb suit.

They didn't know each other from a bar soap except they were in this together. They smiled, fist bumped and puffed their chest. Both spoke into their mics, saying exactly the same thing, "One man down range." Everyone filed out one by one, until the whole Channel Tunnel was empty except for two men who had to bravely stand their ground. They prayed for them as they walked passed.

22:29:30 they snipped it!

Up above ground, where everyone were huddled in safety, all eyes were on the clock. 22:30 hour! No explosion. Everyone dared not move. 22:31, everyone clapped, cheered, hooted and danced. "God save the Queen!"

Two men laid on the roof of the carriage, dehydrated, weary but happy. "Thank God, it's not everyday this sort of madness happens," muttered the English.

**Over the Atlantic**

Sam woke with a start. He opened his eyes and thought for a second he was inside a torture chamber. He frantically tried to get up, screaming Jules' name.

"Oy!" said a voice he didn't recognised.

"Is the princess awake?" asked another.

_Thank God,_ he thought, _they speak_ _English._

He tried to move, wisely, the men decided to tie him down or he would have aggravated his injury. A face loomed over him, "Blondie, it's ok, it's just us."

Sam paused, "Ass? Who's an ass?"

The men hooted with laughter. "He's not himself, guys. Don't make fun of him," said someone with a feminine voice.

"Jules," he said.

"Yes, hon. We're on our way home and these are JTF-2 Commandos."

Sam groaned, he didn't know what was worse. Being captured and tortured or being flown home among the bastards who'd no doubt torment him to death.

The members of the Legion grinned. Game time!

Sam uttered, "Special Forces, my ass!"


	14. You Lose Some

_A/N: Swear Words Alert! But I GUARANTEE you'll love this chapter_

**You Lose Some**

In the end, it was the presence of Jules who saved him. In deference to her, they did eventually eased up on Blondie but promised it wasn't, by any means, the end of it. Sam thought to himself no way he was going to bump into the lads again but he would be proven wrong on that count.

At any rate, once his fuzzy brain kicked into gear proper introduction had to be made. He found out their "names" were Archangel, Slayer, Lion, Scrambler, Elk, Moose, Bear, Pup, Mole, Taurus, Spider and Scorpion.

Jules and Taurus helped him recline on the sleeper chair, a feature of the sleek Airbus. He looked around admiring the ride. Thankful he wasn't being transported home in a C-130 Hercules. _That would be painful._ The lumbering flying beast has no creature comfort, it is loud, rattling, and more often than not loaded with all sorts of machineries, supplies and gears. And often, ferrying people who are uncouth and unwashed.

"What did I miss?" he asked wincing, still in pain from his surgery.

The lads suddenly became very quiet, sombre. Head shaking slowly, the Archangel said, "We lost half of Toronto's Central Station." Blondie paled. Jules rolled her eyes, Pup put a finger on his lips.

_The Central Station? That's insane. _

The Slayer added, "The Statue of Liberty was reduced to rubble." He shook his head sadly for effects, "Bastards!"

_The Statue of Liberty, the symbol of democracy... gone!?_

Pup, the French-Canadian, angrily said, "Merde! They Channel Tunnel is no more. I haven't even been to it. Foutre!"

_The Channel Tunnel? Holy..._

And, the Scorpion said, "The bombing of the Central Station in Sydney was the worse, killed over 1000 people.

_One thousand people? _

Blondie looked at Jules for confirmation, she held her own with the lads. She pursed her lips to keep from laughing and nodded sadly.

"Fuck, seriously."

"Seriously." They chorused.

"I can't believe this," he said in dismay. "I can't fucking believe this."

He switched on to the ruse when he caught Pup wink at Jules, "Bastards! Wankers! Assholes!" he hollered in frustration, he crunched a piece of paper he found lying on the coffee table next to him and threw a well-aimed shot at Pup.

"What the fuck really happened?" he asked in tempered anger.

Jules stepped in, "Guys, that's three swear words in a row. My lad is getting upset. Better give him the full TRUE story."

So the Archangel gave him the good news, "Toronto, Sydney, New York and London are safe. Bombs diffused on time. But," he paused for dramatic effect, "a bomb blew up in China... but not in China... get my drift."

"It blew up in a Chinese Embassy," Sam said thoughtfully. "In India?"

"You'd have to think so, right?" said Jules. "The highest concentration of Tibetan refugees live in India but it happened in Dubai. Officials in Dubai were clueless about any threats, it took them by complete surprise. It took us all by surprise."

"Wait, hold on," he said confused. "What Tibetan? Isn't this about Muslim extremists?"

Everyone looked to Jules to provide the explanation. "While you were sleeping, we figured out that the group of terrorists that bombed the Taj Mahal was a coalition of sort. The threat to Toronto had a Muslim agenda; the one in Sydney, Tamil; in New York, Ukrainians, and in France and London, Algerians; the Dubai-China bombing was supposedly orchestrated by exiled Tibetans."

"Tibetans are peaceful people," he said bewildered.

They all nodded in agreement, "The Dalai Lama has already given a statement to the world media. He said that the Tibetan people do not advocate terrorism or any form of armed resistance. The Tibetan people are all for peaceful change."

"What's your take on this?"

Jules, the intuitive one, said, "I think... someone has funded this. In the same way Bin Laden funded 9/11. Someone with a religious, political, economic or ideological agenda."

Spider remarked, "Wait, are you saying he could be a Ukrainian Muslim billionaire with a desire to convert to Buddhism and practice Tamil. What the hell kinda agenda is that... it doesn't make sense?"

"None of them makes sense... yet," admitted Jules.

Pup, the young one, made an astute observation. "Maybe the agenda is not political. Not ideological. Not religious. May be it's just a way to cause anarchy as a means to an end."

"And what might that end be?" asked the Slayer.

"Money! The love of money is the root of all evil. Not money per se, because money can do a lot of good. But the love of money can do a lot of bad. Historically, the quickest way to make money is misery... trading on people's misery." Before joining Canada Force, Pup the young one, was a honour's major in History at the University of Toronto.

The interesting fact with Special Forces is that it pulls its members from the most varied of skills, from aviators to cook to utilities men, to engineers to gate keeper. The two things they have in common are brawn and brains. No such thing as a stupid SF. On the lowest scale, SF tested above average in I.Q. Test.

Mole asked, "If he's an arms dealer. Heck, he'd be selling a lot of them now."

"Or, he's a player in the Stock market," replied Pup again.

They all looked at each other, brain cogs churning and turning. "You know what, I think you have a point there. Some people shorted airline stocks before the 9/11 terrorists attacks and made off with a lot of money," concurred Mole.

The Archangel thoughtfully added, "I'll bet my bottom dollar we're not the only ones thinking along these lines. Think tank and the alphabet soups are probably now cranking the gears on this theory."

But Sam, having missed some of the action had more questions, "Assuming this hypothetical billionaire has the means and money, how did he go about recruiting these people?"

Jules had the handle on this. "The 'terrorists' were mostly young people, except for the 40 something you sent to heaven to his 70Virgins... " she smiled. "From what little I know, these young people weren't really what you'd classify as radicals... the initial discoveries were that they were disaffected, lost, angry but not radicalised."

"So you're saying they may have been manipulated into this crazy scheme."

"Absolutely," interjected the Archangel. "How hard would it be to convinced someone young and mildly stupid to do something like this? Or someone with not much education."

His brain was going at a hundred miles a minute, his next question was, "But why Dubai?"

"Geez, you ask a lot of questions," remarked Taurus, "You're not secretly with the Canada Forces National Investigation Service, are you?"

Sam shook his pretty head, "I wish... so I can charge all of you for malicious injury to my psyche."

"But it's a good question. Why Dubai?" seconded Elk.

"Because China is Dubai second largest trading partner. The trading partnership between these two countries is staggering in terms of volume and dollar value. What better way to sabotage their relationship than by creating enmity between friends?" replied Scrambler, the team geek.

He added, "The Tibetans involved in this hare-brained scheme wouldn't bomb a Chinese Embassy in India because India has given them sanctuary. By committing an act of atrocity in India, it would be like biting the hand that feeds it. But Dubai is another thing altogether... they don't have any connection to them."

"You have to agree it was a brilliant scheme," said Moose. "Bomb a country without going inside it. It's not original of course, the 1983 U.S. Embassy bombing in Beirut, Lebanon comes to mind."

"That's why the Chinese intelligence were helpless," said Jules. "They searched and searched for people with connection to the Taj Mahal Hotel bombings but couldn't locate any. Firstly, the Tibetans were living in exile, no contacts or families inside Tibet. Secondly, the planning was against China's sovereign land in a foreign country, a country with no idea that something evil was a'brewing."

The political discussion went on for most of the trip to Ottawa.

And the Archangel was spot on! They weren't alone in thinking this way because great brains think alike!

Finally, exhausted Sam asked his last question, "Where are we going?"

"To Ottawa, back to your old stomping ground."

His eyebrows did some callisthenics, "Let me go back to sleep again," he said. Jules smiled. Wiped his brow and kissed him on the forehead.

And the lads said, "Ooowwww."


	15. Mysteries Explained

_A/N: Sam and his Father's relationship has been an evolving theme in my stories. Please read the last chapter of the story, 'A Man called Perseus' for more._

**Mysteries Explained**

Jules and Sam arrived back in Canada via **Canadian Special Operations Forces Command** in Ottawa, which also houses the Dwyer Hill Training Centre of the JTF-2 Commandos. They were given a heroes welcome, most especially Petit Miam.

Not often they were graced by the presence of a warrior goddess. Women have been active in Special Forces the world over, but not in combat roles despite what Hollywood liked to promote. They are valuable assets as support crew to the men who are behind enemy lines. Although currently, there are moves in some circles to include women in active, front-line roles in Special Forces, the jury is still out. Whether that comes to fruition only time will tell. G.I. Jane may yet become reality.

After the rousing welcome, they were led to a secure conference room to meet members of Military Intelligence, headed by General Salomon Braddock. "This will be interesting," murmured Mr B to Mrs B. She brightened with a cheeky smile.

The couple, one in leg cast and the other in an arm sling entered the room to a standing ovation. Champagne was on offer, Sam looked at Jules with one eyebrow raised, "Well, this is a first." Back in the day, he and his cohorts often came back to this room for ass-kicking. None of this toasting your success business.

They raised the flute and toasted the success of stopping terrorism at their door step. The General invited everyone to sit. The seven core team members of the Military Intelligence sat around to take note and casually observe, only the General would be asking questions. Uncharacteristically, he first question he asked was, "How's the arm, Jules?"

Sam glanced at her then stared at the arm, he had forgotten about it. He hadn't even noticed the bandage and the sling. Their eyes met, Jules understood the non-verbal cue, she reached with her good hand to rub his knee.

"It's not the arm, General. It's the hand. It's good, hurts just a little. But I've had the best possible care." She didn't mention the potential ramification of the injury to her shooting hand. It was too soon to tell. Besides, her worries may be just that, unfounded worries.

"And your leg..." there was a pause counted in millisecond, as if the General was undecided what to say next, eventually he came to a firm position, "son." He didn't know who was more surprised, him or _him_. Their relationship has evolved over the years, and has been closer since Sadie's arrival into their lives. But the General has always been a stickler to exacting Military rules. You don't mix personal with business. But here they were in the sanctum of MI and he has just addressed him "Son" in the presence of his staff. Sam swallowed imperceptibly, and said practically the same thing as Jules, "It's good but it hurts a little."

They gave a brief statement of what happened in the Taj Mahal Hotel bombing, and in turn the General gave them the usual non-disclosure comment, which essentially meant they got none back in return, "You know how it is, son. Need to know."

Sam almost wanted to throw a tantrum, wanted to say, "We almost got killed there and we still don't have the right to know!" He wondered what it would take to know... but he knew, of course: join the ranks. He decided he wasn't that curious.

When the business was done, General Braddock excused his staff to have a private word with his family. "My driver will take you home. Your mother can't wait to see you both. And thank you for letting us have Sadie." They didn't see their granddaughter often, not when he's still engage in the Service and living in Ottawa.

"How's the honeymoon, by the way?"

They simultaneously said, "What honeymoon?" They laughed lightheartedly. It was the non-existent honeymoon if there ever was one. They spent a half a day exploring the Taj Mahal and its garden, fought off the terrorists for a night and a day, spent the rest of it in intelligence conference with Aguila and company at the U.S. Consulate in Uttar Pradesh and then slept off the rest of the day following.

"Next time you plan another one, try to keep it local," was his father's sage advice.

The General stood up to indicate the 'meeting' was over. He escorted them outside where the driver was waiting, and gave them both an affectionate hug.

It was a delightful reunion with their Mum and their baby. Even Sam's sister Natalie joined in the fun. She was the dutiful daughter, her mother's rock throughout the harrowing few days just past. In the kitchen, the family's main huddle area, they gathered. "What did we miss?" asked Jules.

"They found the bomb in the rafter of the Central Station. Can you believe that? The entire police department of Ontario wouldn't have found it in time if they searched all week. Thank God for Spike's quick thinking!"

"What? Spike saved the day?"

"Yup, he thought that the bomb was likely to be blown up by cell phone. These days that's the preferred method of detonation so he proposed to Sgt Parker, with just 20 minutes to go, for all cell phone providers to be shut down. He did say if it was on a timer, that the City was doomed."

"Wow, that was a close call!" said Jules.

Nellie served a sandwich platter, "But the people were very angry about that..."

Sam gratefully took a ham and cheese sandwich on brown bread, relished with dijon mustard and dressed with salad leaves. "The public was kept ignorant of the threat?"

Natalie replied, "Yeah, they didn't want unnecessary panic on the streets of Toronto."

They spent a week, the remainder of their annual leave at home in Ottawa. On their last night, Sam and the General went for a walk around the trendy suburb of Glebe , just south of Centretown. Sam fancifully thought how odd it was that the place he grew up in is now considered the "wealthy part of Ottawa." He remembered it as the backwater of his youth. But like all places that's been gentrified, Glebe has had the best pick of foreign and local migrants, well-educated professionals with higher than average incomes.

The father and son conversation started innocently enough, as they walked the foot path. "The average price of houses here these days is $750,000 and $450,000 for an average condominium. Never in my wildest dream did I think our house would serve us well. My salary never stretched quite far enough," the General said.

"Make sure you leave it to me in your will," Sam joked. The father gave the son a lighthearted punch on the shoulder.

The subjects they covered went from the mundane to the serious, until the General said, almost to himself, "If only the public knows how often we get I right, they'd be more forgiving."

It was a remark that Sam only understood too well when he was in the Military. To serve and to protect. And sometimes that meant keeping the ones you love and serve ignorant of the truth. He sighed, "Yeah, so true."

"I know it's none of my business... but what's the terrorists' agenda?"

The General explained: "That's still not entirely clear but investigations are continuing. All we know, for now, is this: these young men were sincere. They love their religion. They were raised by good families. They were sincere but misguided and someone used that to their own advantage. Our think-tanks think it's money driven. The motivation was to make money from the stock market. The timing of the bombings, had they all gone off in a bang, would have meant the Dow Jones, the NASDAQ, the Tokyo Stock Exchange, the ASX, the London Stock Exchange, they were all closed for trading.

"There was nothing significant about the day the bomb was scheduled to go off, no significance to the time, like say 9/11. And it happened in the middle of the week, the resumption of business in the world bourses would mean he, she, they would have made hundreds of millions on a down opening if they had shorted a number of stocks.

"Think of it son, in the state of panic over an unprecedented terror attempt, from Australia to Dubai to Toronto, any stock, not just airline stocks, would drop in value."

"And how do you explain the Tamils involvement? What about the Sikh? The Tibetans?"

"My counter-part in Australia said that the Tamils, as a community in Sydney, had no idea of any terror plan. They were a bunch of, again, sincere but misguided youths who thought to take revenge over Australia's tough stance on refugees arriving in boats through Indonesia. Sadly, the last boat to capsize off the coast of Indonesia, allegedly towed back by Australian Navy was full of Tamils, they all perished at sea, all 120 of them."

Sam shook his head. Just too sad, so many innocents.

"And the Ukrainian-Americans were angered at the 'apparent' neglect of the West on the plights of their fellow Ukrainians. They were disaffected by the fact America got involved in Kuwait to save it from the clutches of Saddam Hussein; got involved the Serbia-Croatia war until peace was achieved. But they saw the U.S. Government was all talk and no action over the 'Russian invasion' of the Ukraine.

"And the French-Algerians were angered by France's failure to assist them, to help them out of poverty. What better way to damage France than to ruin its reputation and alongside it its close European ally. Again, sincere but misguided.

"Someone paid a lot of money to cause this mayhem and you know what I'm afraid of, son... he failed. He would have lost a lot of money and he would want to get that back, so the next plan would be more audacious... more diabolical... and more wide-spread."

Father and son continued to walk in silence the rest of the way, until they found themselves back at the end of the driveway.

They paused, faced each other and without thought, hugged. No shame, no awkwardness, no deliberation. It brought tears to their eyes. They both blinked back the tears and pretended there was nothing out of the ordinary.

From the upstairs windows, Jules and Nellie watched he scene of unbridled love between father and son.

* * *

Somewhere in South Africa, Aguila was following a lead. They know the how, they're fairly sure of the why but they still need to know … WHO.

He's on the trail of a greedy, malevolent, evil-minded mastermind. And not far behind was the Shadow, who has to avenge his country.


	16. Betrayed

_A/N: John Carmody first appeared in the story 'Treasures.'_

**Betrayed**

Jules Callaghan-Braddock rejoined Team One as soon as her approved leave ended, there really was nothing that has been invented that could stop this force of nature. The injury to her hand healed well and so she did what came naturally to her. She practised shooting everyday until she sorted out the kinks in her palm.

Sam Braddock returned to leading Team Three at around the same time. His men teased him about not being missed during his absence. "You could do with a bit more holiday, Boss," said Toby. It's been two years but it still felt strange to be called, "Boss" by his men.

He glared at them and said they're gonna be sorry and he was true to his word. Even with his leg still bandaged, he and his men did the obstacle course which included running, jumping, scaling, commando crawling in the training yard five days in a row. His rookie, Oscar asked, "Why didn't JTF keep you in Ottawa?"

**Three months on**. The world's media has forgotten about the fiasco of the incumbent Ontario Government's mishandling of the telecommunication breakdown in Toronto; the incompetence of NSW Transport's management that led to the massive disruption of commuter train service in Sydney; the disaster of a failed counter-terrorism exercise in the Channel Tunnel that shut down services between Paris and London; and, worse of all, the joint training exercise in New York that nearly got Lady Liberty 'killed'.

But there were people who were unlikely to forget. The hunt for the Mastermind begun in earnest the moment the first of three bombs detonated inside the Taj Mahal Hotel and continued unabated.

Analysts and spooks went backwards following the trail of forensic bread crumbs. From foot soldiers, they traced the lieutenants who fleshed out the scheme, from there to the Mastermind. It was tedious work. Many a times, the trail led nowhere and they had to back track and start again. But no matter how or where they followed it, whether straight forward, or convoluted or zig-zaggy, the trail led back to Arnold Palmer, a recluse billionaire.

No one knew exactly how many billions he owned. He was never mentioned in newspaper reports, never graced the pages of Forbes Magazine, never been interviewed and never quoted by anyone for anything. At any rate, all who mattered knew that the Forbes' annual rich list was not worth the paper they were written on anyway.

There were real billionaires who didn't disclose their asset holdings and never paid taxes. They have always been unknown. They who got their wealth from arms dealing, human trafficking, drug smuggling, those who have made their fortune out of people's misery like Palmer – they're not on the rich list and don't care to be.

They have no need for accountants, just offshore bankers on speed dial. No need for lawyers on retainers for they have no legitimate business to protect but hired guns they have a'plenty. It may sound caricaturish, but these people do exist and in the realm of economic and financial terrorism, more frighteningly real.

Arnold Palmer.

His dossier identified him as American for purpose of citizenship. South African for "business purposes". Brazilian by choice. The man has no loyalty except to money, no religion, and no scruples. His expertise: Manipulation. Manipulation of the market, and the people.

He has lived in Sao Paulo, Brazil for the last ten years, it was a deliberate and calculated decision. As a citizen of Brazil, he would never be extradited to another country, no matter what. That's just how Brazil liked it.

In the forefront of the war against Arnold Palmer was the President's man, Juan Salvador Y Ruiz, ex Delta Force. He was presently alone in an unmemorable Brazilian safe house, tucked in an unexceptional residential district of Rio de Janiero, viewing on screen the terrorist's hide-away. The property in Sao Paulo showcased lagoons, creeks, ponds and a waterfall. He read the brief handed to him earlier, he noted, '12,547,641 square footage'. He whistled.

There were five residencies with sweeping views of the Edenic acreage. A pool, bike and jogging trails, soccer field, picnic area and a clubhouse. Arnold Palmer resided with his ten-year-old adopted son, Alexander Mustapha Palmer in the first house measuring 3,000 square feet. It has four bedrooms and four bathrooms. It featured a gourmet kitchen, formal and informal living rooms, formal and informal dining rooms, a home theatre and a fire place.

He glanced at the brief again. Alexander Mustapha Palmer was adopted a month ago. Curious, he thought. The boy was from Sierra Leone, a country where Palmer has never set foot in, never had any business with, nothing to do with. _Why Sierra Leone? He could easily have adopted an orphan from Brazil or South Africa for that matter. _He wracked his brain for a reason but came out empty.

He stared at the photo. Tall for his age, he noted. Wiry and curly haired. Handsome. The colour purple came to mind.

_Why adopt? _ A reclusive single man adopted a handsome child. His brain went into a certain direction. _Hold your horses! _ He reprimanded himself mentally.

Aguila moved on. The chauffeur and two housemaids lived in the second house which has two bedrooms and one bathroom. The self-contained house featured a kitchen, living room and laundry room.

The third house has three master bedrooms and four bathroom, ideal for the six closed protection bodyguards who provide security on three rotations. The abode has all the mod-cons anyone could wish for and most of all, attached to it was the best surveillance technology room money could buy.

The fourth house, a two bedroom and one bathroom bungalow was converted into a modern, fully equipped financial hub. Here, Arnold Palmer watched the news, monitored the world's bourses as they make or lose money in real time, spoke to his offshore bankers and generally where he plotted and schemed his malicious ways.

The roof was adorned with a sophisticated satellite disc, concealed by a camouflage-patterned fabric to made it invisible to spy satellites orbiting overhead. He surmised correctly that these photographs had to have been obtained using HUMIT(Human intelligence).

The fifth house, a one bedroom and one bathroom cottage with its own kitchen and living room, housed a lone gardener. Aguila shook his head. One gardener to look after a property in excess of 12,000,000 square footage! _He had to be desperate! _ On second thought, much of the property was bushland that didn't require looking after and mowing.

As massive as the property was, it was ringed with electrified fence at the perimeter, watched by top of the range closed circuit television cameras that swivelled 360 degrees on their posts.

He perused the photographs over and over, analysing, committing every details to memory, looking for egress and ingress. Read his notes again and again. Preparation was key. By the time he was done with them, two days later, he knew the lay out of the houses and the property like the palm of his hands.

His orientation done, Aguila readied himself for a briefing with the Brazil Bureau chief of the Central Intelligence Agency. The man arrived incognito via a sub-floor connected to a house three doors down. Very Cold War, thought the ex Delta Force.

They had very little to say to each other, except the CIA man extended the President's good wishes. The unassuming warrior simply nodded in acknowledgement and informed him he was ready and would be heading for Sao Paulo "soonish". The spook handed him a small package, "God speed and here's what you asked for."

Aguila didn't mocked about. As soon as the hatch closed, and the spook disappeared into the belly of the subterranean tunnel, he hefted his backpack and went out the door into a sunny day obscured only by scattered rain clouds.

He walked leisurely to downtown Rio de Janiero, his destination was the bus depot for intercity and interstate travel. He hasn't gotten far when a boy, who looked slightly familiar, came into focus. He smiled at the pre-pubescent child then the brain clicked into gear. _Wiry, curly haired, handsome, the colour purple. _

But too late.

Before he could completely process the information, the boy aimed a silenced Luger Parabellum, or simply the Luger, chambered with 9mm Luger cartridge called P08 straight to his heart. It snuffed out Aguila's life before he even hit the ground.

The master manipulator hadn't adopted the boy for mercy's sake, he adopted him because he was a trained killer. In Sierra Leone, a seven year old is deemed old enough to hold a gun and to kill. The country with one of the highest number of child soldiers has been churning out children killers for years.

Until blood oozed out of the American's limp body, people in the immediate proximity weren't even aware he had been killed. Except, the Shadow but even he was too slow to react. Who would have suspected a child? And even if Aguila had suspected it, the Shadow doubted he would have been able to terminate the child with extreme prejudice.

The Mastermind won again!

When news of Aguila's demise reached the President he was heart broken. Not to much that his man perished, for soldiers do die. It was the fact he had to deny Aguila. The Brazilians issued an official protest through diplomatic channel. A search of Ruiz' backpack revealed a gun. The serial number was filed off, and when Ruiz' profile appeared in the secret government database, it was assumed he was sent in for a kill.

The President denied it!

That night, the President walked around the Rose Garden in the White House in solitude. Alone with his thoughts, he mourned the death of a friend. A hero whose lifeless boy would never be repatriated, never receive a hero's funeral, never have the Last Post played at his memorial service, and would never be acknowledged except in secret and only in the mind of a few.

In life, Aguila had no expectation of pagentry. How many medals has he earned but never received? But how could he be awarded medals for missions that supposedly never happened?

His death didn't sadden the President as much as the fact that by denying him, he reduced Aguila to a common criminal. At about that time, Juan Salvador y Ruiz was being tossed into a unmarked grave along with several other indigents in Rio.

The President looked to the heavens, and fought back the tears until he couldn't.

When news reached him, Senator John Carmody, Aguila's former Commanding Officer and the man who urged him to join Delta Force was distraught. He looked out the window of his Merrylands' town house and mulled the failed mission, _Who betrayed my friend?_

* * *

_It killed me to 'kill' Aguila. He has been a beautiful mainstay in my story-telling. _

_To the Fallen, and to those who have been left behind, saludo._


End file.
